


To Live Again

by thwax



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1996-12-31
Updated: 1996-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-23 08:15:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6110545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thwax/pseuds/thwax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Richie is damaged: he's been running since McLeod attacked him, fighting when he needs to, living on the edge of society and his nerves. Now he's back in Paris. Now he has to face McLeod. Yet, there is more going on than damaged friendships, and Methos finds himself in the middle of it when two his his carefully separated worlds collide.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set after the episode where Duncan attacked Richie when in the grip of a Dark Quickening and resolves that storyline.

It was going to be one of *those* days, Methos could feel it in the air.  There was nothing out the ordinary about the day on the surface; yes the sun was shining brightly through wispy clouds making the Paris day unusually warm for October, but that wasn’t it at all.  Neither had the strange conversation he’d had that morning with Duncan really made any impact on the pathos in his soul - maybe it had been part of it, but not everything and it was far from his mind as he glanced back over his shoulder down the crowded street.

The ancient Immortal knew he was being followed, but there was no sign of the perpetrator.  Whoever it was, they were good, only impinging on his special sense, the one beyond even the Immortal warning signals, the one which had kept him alive more than once.  He was almost sure it was one of his own, and despite the unease it gave him, his spirit told him this was meant to happen.  It was to do with the scheme of things, the delicate web of coincidence to whose fibrous strands he had occasionally been privy since his memory began.  It was the same as the touch on his being he had felt the day he met Duncan MacLeod and the reason he had risked his life to help him return from darkness.  But this was *not* MacLeod.  Methos had no idea of the identity of the ghost behind him, his instincts were dangerously vague, as usual.  In five thousand years he’d never really been able to shake the disquiet that accompanied every moment like this - it was a reflection of the fragility of coincidence, a knowledge that this scheme, like many others, could crumble away if that is what was intended. 

The old man was especially wary today because of his destination.  Adam Pierson had a lot of secrets, Methos far more, and this was the greatest.  If coincidence decided to fail this day then a part of his world would be in immense danger.  Still, it was *meant*, and as he paused at the steps to the town house, glancing hopelessly into the anonymous crowd for some inkling of his tail, the man knew he could not wait long.  It was not often that the experienced creature had his heart in his mouth, he had felt that way faced with the Dark Quickening in the Clansman, he had felt that way when his head had been offered to stop Kalas, and now he felt it again.

“So many times in a few years,” he muttered to himself as he gave up the sharp-eyed scan, “I can’t take much more of this.”

~

It had been a long journey, not merely for his body, but for his spirit as well.  The young Immortal had admitted it to himself weeks ago, that violent night in the dojo had changed Richard Ryan beyond what he could have conceived and it had taken a terrifying few months to finally bring him to this place.  He wasn’t quite sure why he was in Paris, it was an awkward place for him at the best of times, but now was worse; MacLeod was here, the last person he wanted to see.  He had no idea how that night in the dojo had ended, he had fled, grabbing a pack and some money and driving away.  He hadn’t stopped for three days, pausing only momentarily at gas stations along a haphazard route, going nowhere except away from his home city.  He’d wanted to contact Joe then, find out what had happened, but something had stopped him, maybe the memory of the triumph and dispassion in his mentor’s eyes, maybe the gun in the ‘safe’ watcher’s hand, he hadn’t really dwelt on why, he just knew that he could not face that part of the torment which had driven him to this place.

The money had run out too quickly, and he’d begun to work his way along a lost man’s route.  Nothing had made much sense, and looking back he wondered how anyone had employed the sorry-looking, wild-eyed man prone to violent mood swings.  Yet, there’d been some kind souls who’d seen the pain in his heart and made sure he stayed on at least a safe road.  The young man didn’t remember much, not even the Immortals; there were brief recollections of Quickenings, but to whom they had belonged and how the challenges had happened, Richie could not recall. He knew only that his sword arm was stronger than it had ever been.

Battered, but his mind once more his own, the Immortal had arrived in the cosmopolitan city unsure of the time in between the start and finish of the arduous travel. He’d been dirty and tired as he had been once before, but now there was no friend to ask for help.  He’d booked into a small, plain, but clean hotel, washed and slept for twenty four hours.  Then something had led him out to view the city he had come to love.  The youth had missed his first taste of the world, and he had begun to explore early that morning.

Adam had been an unexpected sight, folded easily over a cafe-front table, reading intently some tattered piece of manuscript, oblivious to the world around.  He was MacLeod’s friend, another reminder of the tall, warm-hearted Immortal he had known all those moths ago, and the youth had found himself leaning on the wall of an alley and staring fixedly at the young-looking figure.  He had no idea who Adam really was, or if he’d even had contact with the Highlander since his transformation, but he was a tangible link to an old life and Richie needed that.  He’d been deliberately transient too long; he had forgotten what made Richard Ryan the man MacLeod had moulded out of the wayward teenager.  Adam brought back a little of the old feeling of welcome and belonging which had been shattered almost beyond redemption.

Ryan wasn’t sure if Pierson knew he was there; a few minutes, or an hour after the watch had begun, the youth wasn’t certain as his intensity wiped away the passage of time, the subject had rubbed his neck and looked up sharply as if stung by some kind of insect, but his eyes had then surveyed his immediate area.  Whatever it had been, the researcher had seemed to settle quickly, and his gaze had never turned to the cool figure who stood, hands in his pockets, statuesque, a hundred yards down the road.  Soon after that, Adam had packed up his document wallet and moved off at a leisurely pace.  With the same, confused, vulnerable feeling in his heart which had made him stop in the first place, Richie found himself following.

The walk had not been far, a few streets, but for some reason, Richie had absolutely no recollection of the way he had travelled, only being intent on the casual figure striding evenly ahead of him. He didn’t even know how he had kept out of sight, or why, Adam was no threat, and why would he be following unless he wanted to talk, but he had become the man’s shadow.  As the Immortal Watcher disappeared into the tall, elegant house, Ryan walked out from behind the parked van which had been his cover and stared up at the building.  Now he was feeling something else, it wasn’t curiosity, it wasn’t anything he could identify as he took in the beautiful, but unimposing structure - the young man merely knew there was something inside for him.

Duncan, the centre of his emotion, the harbinger of terror and nightmares, the memory of something so close that present reality was painful, the man slipped out of his thoughts and his gaze cleared a little as only immediate things mattered.  Ryan loosened the brown leather of his jacket, he hadn’t noticed the warm turn in the weather before. It was something too mundane to have reached his battered senses, but now there was time for the little things.  He moved with an ease in his stride that had been missing for too long, his shoulders proud rather than hunched, no thought for the sword protectively hidden in the folds of his coat.  The young man walked towards the house, leaving the weight of his personal torment behind in the street that was too busy to notice it.

~

The door was on the latch; Richie didn’t even think twice before pushing it in to reveal hallway.  The immediate area was completely open, only a staircase decorating the simple, white-walled atrium.  The place reverberated warmth as the bright rays of sunlight danced through a window which demonstrated that the hallway ran the depth of the tall building.  Doors were sunk back in the walls of the corridor, but the captivated Immortal ignored them all, and headed up the stairs at a light, gentle trot. The movements of his clothing and his breathing were the only things to disturb the silence that had fallen as the door closed on the outside.  Ryan listened to the tap of his boots on the bare wood of the flight.  He recognised a slight increase in the rate of his breathing as a nervous anticipation made itself plain from the pocket of emotion which he still couldn’t fully define.

Richie’s actions were completely out of character.  He didn’t know where he was going, or into what situation he was placing himself, and the unknowns usually made the street-raised youth wary.  Yet, no matter that he felt a vague angst about what he was doing, it was of little consequence - something greater led him on.  It spoke to his soul, offering a hope, a friendship he had missed so terribly.  The Immortal existence was inherently a lonely one, MacLeod had forced that message home with the razor edge of his sword to an unprotected throat, but the feeling in the young man’s heart was warming his thoughts away from the ice of ‘There can be only one’.  The Eternal in him was almost singing, harmonising to a tune he had never heard before, a chorus where there should have only been a solo; it didn’t make any sense, but the injured being accepted the melody which reached in to heal his wounds.

A door stood immediately in front of the explorer as he reached the head of the stairs as they turned sharply to meet the landing.  It was locked.  He turned the brass handle, but the panel did not give.  There was a hiccup in the gentle concord, the youth had not expected anything in this place to be barred to him, then again, he had no idea what he was expecting.  No more than momentarily unsettled, the deep blue eyes scanned up and down the open landing.  He hadn’t seen it at first, it was hidden by the bright sunshine streaming through the first floor window, but as his eyes adjusted to the light, the youth made out a doorway beyond the stairs, on the other side of the hall. It was nestled in the corner where the outside back wall met the internal divider and seemed smaller than the other typically Victorian portals.  Richie smiled to himself, it had been a long time since he’d done that.  His mind was calmly blank as he wandered over to it and reached out for the small, ivory handle.

The mechanism slid and the door swung open without a sound and the youth stumbled into the room as the ease of action took him by surprise.  Now, the Immortal had had his rash moments, he knew only too well that impulsiveness was one of his problems, but as he found his balance a few steps into the new room, reality hit and impulsiveness seemed too slight a word for describing his total lack of foresight.  The young man straightened and turned rapidly to his right as his re-alerted senses felt a warning like none he had ever encountered.  His skull shuddered with the touch of his own kind and breath almost failed him as his body jarred against the strangeness in the shift of his soul.  If the edge to his Eternal sense was not enough to tell the befuddled newcomer that his host was more than an ordinary Immortal, then what met his eyes was surely the clincher.  Richie’s mouth went slack and his heart jumped wildly as he took in the view before him.  There were about twenty of them, all broad as a bus, tall, and armed to the teeth - Ryan knew he was looking at trained warriors as his eyes flicked over the taut, disciplined figures who made an avenue ten deep down the long room.  Yet, they weren’t what drew his alarmed attention, not one of them was Immortal; the call of his spirit sought out another body.  A pile of cushions rested at the far end of the room and a small, shrivelled old body was sat atop them.  A man, wizened in the extreme, white-haired, white-skinned and white-eyed, he was the sight which defied the strength of telling in the young Immortal’s spirit.  On the surface, a harmless old man, sat cross-legged and helpless on the spread of down; underneath, Richard Ryan recognised a *very* strange Immortal, and his instinct told him that the figure wasn’t exactly seated *on* the cushions so much as millimetres above them.

His logical brain kicked in a second later and denied that observation, but the fact that there was an Immortal in front of his surrounded by an awful lot of dangerous-looking steel could not be shunned.  Ryan was a survivor, and his instincts told him that this was bad.  He had the same feeling about the past few minutes as he had about the past few months, nothing new, and it seemed that he’d woken up to reality just a fraction too late.  Still, there was a way out of everything, and it was obvious that his sword would not be involved this time.  There appeared to be absolutely no reaction from the wispy form before him, or his guards, so he was in with a chance.

He spun on his heels and took a stride for the door.  Richie knew his luck had just run out when a shadow fell across his only exit and he felt another of his kind.  The touch was surprisingly insignificant compared with the quality of the warning he had just experienced, but it was enough. The young Immortal’s hand was in his jacket, halfway to his sword by the time he recognised the visage which gazed back at him with a look somewhere between surprise and cool business.  He froze, uncertain of how to treat the figure who merely stood in his way, arms crossed and with a smile playing on his lips.

~

The smile was in way of an attempt at seeming non-threatening - Methos was not sure how to handle the feral being he greeted.  To look at Richard Ryan was to see the Wild Man tamed only by evolution.  There was some semblance of order about his person, but it was a translucent veil covering instinct and the knowledge of man’s brutality towards man, which civilisation usually hid.  His hair was brushed, but barely, and the curls were longer and wilder than the normally styled cut allowed; there was at least a week’s growth on his chin, but it was not intended to become a beard, this creature attended to his toilet only when life let him. Then there were his eyes, the windows to his soul, and the elder Immortal saw the destruction of trust, friendship, a world, in that brilliant blue stained-glass.

In all his experience, Adam could only liken Richie to a startled jack-rabbit, but this bunny had teeth and the experienced being was wondering why he walked into these kinds of situations.  There were no rules to this way he’d chosen five thousand years since, so why was he standing facing down  a cornered, half-mad Immortal who was armed while he was not?  There wouldn’t be an answer, he knew that, he’d accepted that after a few hundred years of temper tantrums. There was only now and his own cunning to get out of this one with his head.

The ancient man took a risk; he had known this boy briefly, and praying that the child, who was very much in control of the man, would not strike out at a familiar face, the Immortal stepped forward.  It was one pace, short, unintrusive, but Ryan skidded back three for his one and there was no doubt as to on what his fingers rested within the folds of his clothing.

“You won’t need that here,” Adam smiled openly and glanced at the bulge under the jacket.

“Like I didn’t in the dojo,” Richie hissed, his voice was thin and unused.

“I’m unarmed,” the other unfolded his stance and held his hands away from his body; it *was* obvious that he had no weapon.

“They’re not,” the youth nodded towards the statues of humanity, all the distrust of the loner in his manner.

Methos shied away as the sword was finally drawn, but he had no reason to move for cover, the young Immortal was not about to go for a defenceless head. Ryan backed away from him, more concerned with the avenue of arms to his left, he was trying to keep everything in his field of view.

“If you’ll just get out of my way, I’ll be leaving,” the words were polite, but there was a threat beneath them as they slid through gritted teeth.

Adam wasn’t given the chance to even contemplate the choice, and he was rather relieved as another entered the pointed conversation.

“Have you brought me our Savage, Methos?” came the interjection from a light, gentle voice that could have inferred absolutely no animosity even if it tried.

The Immortal looked to the old man at the sound of his voice and then glanced back to survey the dangerous creature in the corner.  It had surprised him to find Richie part of this, it had never even occurred to him before, but as he took in the shambles of humanity that the boy had so swiftly become, he had no doubt as to the assessment.

“Yes, Tomas, I think I have,” he answered, and added with his usual ironic humour, “I *had* wondered where we would find a Savage in this day and age.”

“Then remember your manners and invite him to sit with us,” the wizened form defied the mood of his guest with the good temper and warmth in his tone.

~

Richie was at a loss for how to take the easiness in his associate’s tones.  His sword spoke for the paranoia in his soul, but his head still held some sway over his world, and it couldn’t understand the conflicting messages the armoured guard and the openness sent him.  Of course they were confident, there were twenty mortals at their command, but still, he sensed something, a little of the daft notion that had got him here in the first place.  The youth couldn’t shake that tiny spark of harmony which sat at the back of his defensive persona.  What was more, the name Methos had stuck in his mind, both Duncan and Joe had mentioned the name to him, a legend among a society of myths, and equating Adam Pierson to the historic figure did nothing to aid the young man’s already failing grasp of the situation.  His incomprehension and disquiet showed only too well on the young face aged by trouble, and the blade remained poised toward any man who even dared breathe.  The suddenly strange Pierson didn’t show any signs of moving aside, and the soldiers appeared to have little if no interest in him, it was stalemate.

“Richie, this is Tomas, a *very* old friend of mine,” Adam told him; still no sign of hostility. “Tomas, this is Richie Ryan, I know him through MacLeod.”

“The Warrior’s pupil?” there was surprise in the aged man’s voice, and then he murmured more to himself, “I had wondered, this is becoming very interesting.”

“What the hell are you talking about?!” Ryan demanded hotly, his confusion boiling to the surface as a rage.

“If you’d just put your sword down we can sit and explain,” Methos sighed, understanding in his eyes.

The patient, calm front was the last thing the youth had expected from another Immortal, he’d lost all trust of his own kind with MacLeod’s attack, and it was a difficult thing to rebuild.  There were too many variables to make the circumstances easy to assess, and still, the young man hung back, poised like a frightened animal.

“The boy is understandably nervous,” Tomas observed, a smile creasing his face like old paper.  “My friends, you may leave, I will not be needing your protection this day.”

The old man clapped his hands together and bowed his head to the gathered company.  The change in his escort was amazing; the men relaxed instantaneously, and blank faces softened to fond smiles for their small charge.  There wasn’t a word spoken, but each man bowed to the centre of his attention in his turn and moved to leave.  Methos was given a farewell by each, and Richie watched suspiciously as the Immortal dismissed them all as comrades.  Some of the men even sent him supportive glances and grins as they left.  He was severely perturbed by the time the last heavily armed man exited and shut the door behind him.  He was unready for the easy shrug that Adam produced as he turned his attention back to his guest.

~

“Dammit, Richie,” Adam scoffed without malice, “put down the bloody rapier and at least listen to what we have to say.”

“Methos!” Tomas immediately scolded.

“Well,” the man waved a hand at the tense youth, determined not to be put down, “this is ridiculous, what’s he think he needs a sword for against an unarmed opponent and an old man.”

“You’ve been doing this for five thousand years, Methos,” Tomas reminded him patiently, “your friend must think us more than a little crazy.”

“You could say that,” Ryan snarled, but did at least lower the blade to his side.

“Try and remember what it was like when you first came across all this,” the fragile form wagged a finger at his long-time comrade.

The Immortal snorted, he remembered alright.

“That would be the time you put me between you and a seven-foot barbarian who was determined to take both our heads,” he disclosed with heavy cynicism in his tone.

Tomas just laughed, a clear, bright sound that cut through any atmosphere that stood between the men.  Adam raised an eyebrow and glanced across to the slowly relaxing, but still largely confused Ryan, he received a frown for his trouble.  There wasn’t much humour left in Richie, the dark circles round his eyes gave reason to his sour disposition.

“Come here, both of you,” the strange old man beckoned to them.

The elder moved without hesitation, he loved the source of most of the waves that ever possessed the sea of his life, and he trusted him implicitly.  The younger took a few moments to make his decision, but Methos was glad when he eventually slunk forward.  The web that had been spun over millennia was finally coming to completion, he could feel it, and the wild youth was the silk that made up the final strand. The Savage had been his reference since Tomas had deemed it fit to place another player in the game, which was only fully known in the old man’s head. This wasn’t the big picture, it was only a tiny piece, protected and brought to fruition by a crippled old man whose age had never quite been ascertained.  Yet it *was* important, and one of it’s key roles walking away would have meant that the fragile links of coincidence had finally failed.

~

The gaze, that watched Methos lazily throw himself down onto the cushions beside his comrade, was suspicious and narrowed in cool separation, but the youth could not fight the urge to move forward and lower his defences.  It had been a long time since anyone had even offered him such familiarity, and he needed it; Ryan may have grown up on the streets, relying on number one, but he had needed friends, in Angie, in Donna, and his solitary journey had cut deep into his soul.  His stare shifted from the relaxed Immortal to his upright, poised associate, and the young man found himself transfixed by the white stare he found in the gentle visage.  There was no sight there, he knew it, but still Richie felt a touch on him; this creature was not even ordinary to an Immortal.  The wild being caught his more familiar companion look down at his hands, and he was left in the private moment with the blind ancient.  Those pale irises were hypnotic in their purity. Yet, just as the helpless soul felt itself begin to slip into the colourless depth, the moment was broken by a wide, welcoming smile.  The skin on Tomas’ face folded in creases so deep there was no doubt that they had been made through years of such a motion, and he held out his hands up to the figure before him.

“Sit, Savage,” he waved him down beside him.

If anyone else had called him Boy, or Savage, the street punk would have probably decked them, but from this mouth, it was completely without offence.  Slowly, his instincts still reluctant to let go of his defensive position, he sunk onto the softness of the feather seating.  Tomas was sat some way back on the massive pile, and so the young man came face to face with Methos once more as he finally gave in to the weakness in his knees.  He merely blinked at the wide grin on the dark man’s face, not easy enough with the situation to allow anymore expression.

“Thank you,” the elderly form beside him nodded and the youth started as a light palm was laid on the back of his hand.

Still, he resisted the urge to pull out of reach.

“Now, you must have quite a few questions,” Tomas began his blank gaze once again seeming to look into his guest’s soul.

Richie took a breath, there were suddenly a mass of thoughts in his head as he relaxed and let them in.  Confusion was putting it mildly; yet, it was peevishness which found him first and he glared across at Adam.

“Does MacLeod know?” he asked tartly.

“About me, yes,” the other took the curtness in his stride, “about this, no not directly.  Tomas is a very well kept secret.”

The old man laughed and added, “Methos had been playing decoy for me for five thousand years - I am too old to spend my time running from Watchers and our own kind, so he set about creating himself the oldest living Immortal.  And I must say he’s done a magnificent job, no one has found me who wasn’t meant to in all that time.”

“So you expected me?” the youth enquired incredulously, he was practical by nature and prophecy was a little hard to swallow.

“Not exactly,” Tomas shrugged vaguely, “I know my characters by feeling, Richie; Methos I knew as Fox about a year before he arrived in my life, cunning, careful, a little too cynical for his own good,” he smiled and the man in question snorted in response.  “MacLeod is my Warrior, proud, honourable, strong, and he will know it soon.  You, well, you appeared in my dreams only a few months ago, and your name reflects what I recognised; wild, dangerous, unpredictable.”

Richie bowed his head as he listened, chilled by the description, but well aware that it was true.  It was only another reminder of how much his life had changed and the words hurt.  Whether his companion heard the change in his breathing as a sigh was held back form his lips, or something else told him of the emotion in the spirit close by, the hand on his squeezed protectively and the voice was soft as he was told, “Don’t despair of it, Boy, what is, is, you can only learn from it and you *will* heal.”

“Duncan has had every contact he knows scouring half the world for you,” Adam added warmly.

“He’s okay?” the young man enquired tentatively, but there was hope in his soul; he hadn’t dared discover the fate of his one time mentor before now.

“He beat the Dark Quickening,” the Watcher nodded firmly and smiled at the relief in Ryan’s sad eyes. “You didn’t know?”

There was no reply - the young man had no words to explain the mixture of emotions that were inside him whenever the Highlander was mentioned.  He was angry at the Scot for what he had done, he had sent him to hell, a cold, lonely place from which escape was near impossible.  Yet, there was also the knowledge that it had been an external influence that had turned him against everything he knew and it muted the rage sometimes when he was in contact with the rational part of his psyche.  It also warmed his soul to know that the Clansman had cared about his fate.  Yet, he was not sure how he could return to a friendship which had been built on so much trust, that putting it back together was like trying to mend fine china in a thousand pieces.  He was glad his teacher was well, the pure evil in his eyes the last time they had met had destroyed his world, at least that was gone.  The young man felt his eyes sting hot and the view before him misted; he glared rapidly down at the burning red cushion below him trying to hide the momentary weakness.

“Well,” Tomas was as perceptive as usual and pressed on, “these names may sound absurd, but humour an old man in his delusions.  I see a path in my mind, at least I suppose it’s a path, I have no idea what one looks like, an it winds its way through the ages, picking up travellers from time to time, and putting the down in their lives where they are supposed to be.  Each of the travellers has a name, and you are the last, Richie, my Savage, you bring the path, which I have weeded over the centuries, to an end.”

That was deep, and a tired brain pushed past the significance, unable to deal with it at that time.  Instead, Ryan focused on the strange old creature.

“How old are you?” he questioned quietly.

~

A chuckle escaped Adam’s lips as he heard the question, and he collapsed back down on the cushions from where he had been leant on his elbow.  It was a sign of exasperation, and he worded his feelings in a long, amused sigh, “You don't know how many times I’ve asked that, and how many times I’ve been fobbed off with an old man’s memory.”

“Your own mind is misty before five thousand, Boy!” Tomas quipped, patting him affectionately, “Why should I know what even you cannot remember?”

“You know, Old Man!” Methos scoffed back, but it was a familiar argument and the frustration in his voice had been softened over time.  “You just like the mystique.”

The dark man waved an arm in the air and glanced in mock exasperation at his young companion; there wasn’t a smile on the exhausted face, but Richie did show some signs that his tension was easing.  It saddened the old man to see the traces of torture in the handsome visage, he had suffered his own share of troubles, but age had been on his side by the time they’d accosted him, and had made them more bearable.  In a few hundred years, maybe MacLeod’s betrayal wouldn’t show in his eyes anymore - time had a funny way of soothing the emotions - but for now, it was painful.  So much turmoil in such a young soul - Methos concluded that they were lucky there was any Richard Ryan left.

The Watcher held the gaze that fell on him, reading it, sympathising with the damp sheen that rested on the bright blue eyes.  There wasn’t anything he could say, he had known the youth too long to make the sometimes open talk of strangers possible, but not long enough for the compassion of close friends.  Instead, he nodded cordially and deliberately redirected his attention to Tomas; it worked, and he smiled to himself as the silent form followed his lead.

A hand touched his shoulder as the old man took in breath to continue the conversation.  Adam understood well enough what it meant; he was an inconvenience to the conversation, a link with the past, but an awkward half-stranger.  He had experienced Tomas’ ability to soothe even the most troubled soul, and his presence was only going to get in the way of the wizened creature’s gentle art.  It was time to make himself scarce.

In perfect accord with his ancient comrade, the Immortal sat up and announced before the next sentence had begun, “Before this goes any farther, I need a beer.  Can I get you one Richie?”

The youth looked startled by the sudden movement, but he settled quickly and shook his head awkwardly.

“Your loss,” Methos shrugged with his usual easy grin and clambered to his feet.  “You want some of that disgusting stuff you call tea, Tomas?”

He didn’t need to wait for a reply, the old man would say yes - the Immortal had never fathomed how his friend found any pleasant taste in the grey-green stew that was his habitual beverage.  Methos had learnt very early on in their relationship, that Tomas’ ‘acquired taste’ must have taken a few millennia.


	2. Chapter 2

Half an hour later, Adam ventured back into his comrade’s ‘front room’.  He’d prepared the tea, breathing sparingly as the smell was almost as bad as the taste.  He entered, bearing a tray with a pot and two cups (just in case Richie had a very strange sense of taste).  The door swung in easily as usual and he stepped smoothly into the room, quip ready on his lips. However, the old man clamped his mouth shut rapidly and he halted at the entrance as he took in the view before him.  He smiled gratefully at his bent old companion who was still seated in exactly the same manner as before, and shook his head in disbelief.  He’d seen Tomas’ touch before, but a grown man fast asleep with his head in his lap, his face untouched by waking tribulations, was a miracle indeed.  The ancient creature was softly stroking the inert figure’s hair and cooing like a dove, his blind eyes gazing down with a care that was almost fatherly.

Tomas looked up as the sound of the entrance and smiled at the gesture he could not see.

“He is exhausted both in mind and body,” he whispered, “and so I suggested he sleep.”

Adam shook his head still harder, Tomas’ ‘suggestions’ could be very persuasive when he put his mind to it.  As quietly as possible, the younger moved across with the refreshment, settled it in front of his little master and guided his hand to the pot.  It was a familiar ritual, but still Methos watched carefully as the frail Immortal helped himself to the hot drink, ready for any slip.  Tomas was well aware of the caring eyes on him, and this time he seemed to find it inappropriate.

“Don't fuss,” he scolded, “I have been doing this longer than you can imagine.  Go do something useful, go fetch our Warrior.”

Adam sat back on his haunches a moment and stared at the old man and the youth.  Tomas was very protective about this young one, he’d never seen him quite so close to such a new recruit before.  Maybe it was age adding eccentricity to an already unusual creature, maybe not, the younger legend had given up trying to fathom his companion at about the time he had realised what it meant to be truly old.  Now, he allowed the extraordinary Eternal his oddities, and hoped that people would humour him when *he* reached a similar age.   He wasn’t wanted, that was obvious, so he wouldn’t push it, things were strained enough with their Savage as it was.

“Okay,” he agreed, standing back up, “I’ll go and announce us to MacLeod.”

~

Duncan sat spread-eagled across his sofa, a book in one hand and a large mug of coffee in the other.  It wasn’t a difficult read, requiring a sparse knowledge of Plato and a little Greek, but nothing his four hundred years could not handle.  Yet, the Highlander found himself reading the same paragraph for the umpteenth time that hour and he finally realised that his heart was definitely not in the pastime.  Exasperatedly, he slammed the book down on the coffee table and sunk back into the puff beneath him.  As he stared up at the ceiling, the Clansman considered that maybe it had all started with the  weird mood in which he’d found Adam that morning at their brunch appointment.  The old man had phased his companion considerably when he started talking about destiny and the web of fate.  The man had been spouting myth and legend in ways that he’d never heard the practical creature use before, it had been like seeing yet another side to Methos.  Still, the guy was five thousand, he was entitled to a few hidden nuances.  The conversation had set his mind off on a tangent, and it hadn’t returned to the level-headed Scot as yet.

The Immortal gave in and let in the thoughts he knew were waiting for him as soon as he let his attention go.  They were the same ones he’d been considering as he fixed himself a light lunch an hour ago, they were those which had erased his appetite and left the salad sitting uneaten on the coffee table.  They hurt to contemplate, but they would not leave him in peace.  Duncan’s attention wandered back to two very familiar faces and he closed his eyes as they sat in his mind’s eye.  Tessa, willowy, feminine, his beloved, killed for a few dollars.  Methos had be murmuring on about coincidence and everything having its place in the scheme of things, he’d been working up to something, but the Highlander had put him down as his own ideas mingled with the discussion and made him wonder what the beauty’s death had to do with the way of the world.  A life destroyed in the heat of a drug-crazed moment.  Once when his blood had been hotter with the fire of youth, he might have let his heart lead him, and ruined a life for a life, but it had been another who had tried to become Tessa’s avenging angel, revealing the terrible deed to the oblivious perpetrator.  Richie’s smiling face settled firmly in the Clansman’s mind, bright, energetic, missing.  It had been a long road back from the abyss that the Dark Quickening had created, and MacLeod was still on his return.  The young Immortal was one of the lose ends that made the path hazardous, a cord that played around his feet, trying to trip him into the melancholy that awaited him.  Richie had been his pupil, his ‘son’ and he had betrayed all he had taught him in those few terrible minutes at the dojo.  The Scot remembered the anger, the confusion and his spirit rose in angst as he considered what that could be doing to the sometimes vulnerable young man.  Trust had been a difficult thing for Richard Ryan, but he’d given it to his mentor only to have it shattered by the sword.

Duncan sighed, it was too late for all this, his first concern should be finding the elusive figure last seen by any Watcher leaving the city to go east.  So many months, it was worse than death, at least he knew Tessa’s fate, Richie’s was a blank, furnished only with vague rumours and hearsay from his friends around the globe.  A young man fitting the description was seen in Denver, but another was spotted at the same time heading into Canada, then again, there was always the message from New England that said a young blond Immortal had been seen with the Amish.  It was all conflicting and frustrating, but the Highlander had vowed not to give up until he was certain of his comrade’s location.  He hadn’t decided what he’d do when he found him, that was more difficult than the search itself.  Would Richie even want to see him?  Could he mend the ties which he’d sliced with the katana?  The troubled Scot wasn’t sure on either, and he couldn’t conceive of his reaction if the answers were negative.

What did so much hurt have to do with ‘the scheme of things’?

~

Adam took a deep breath as he paused at the gangplank; his mood was thick with the extra sense as his instinct was buffeted from all sides.  He’d never felt so much premonition before, he usually left that to Tomas,  but today was certainly turning out to be more than just a little strange.  The old man pushed aside the possibly over-powering edge to his world, there was the present and Duncan MacLeod with which to be dealt.  He wasn’t sure how he was going to reveal his information, but then he usually followed his nose in these sorts of things anyway.

Running over a few choice words, the ancient creature stepped onto the boat.

~

The Highlander’s disposition soured a little further as he felt the shudder of recognition for his own kind.  He was in no mood for visitors, especially Immortal ones, who could quite possibly be after his head.  He sat up rapidly, swearing as he sent the coffee he’d forgotten sprawling all over a very expensive Persian rug.  He was glowering bad-temperedly at the door, in easy reach of his sword, when a polite rap cut the testy silence.

“It’s open,” Duncan called, softened a little by the cordial disposition of his guest, but he was still feeling like a bear with a sore head.

The look on Methos’ face told the Highlander just how black his mood seemed to another.  As usual, the man smiled, but there was a cynical glint in his eye.

“You’re the second person today who’s given me a hard stare,” the Watcher wagged his finger at the stationary Scot, “must be something in the air.”

“What are you doing here, Adam?” the Clansman asked tersely, his mood none the better for the humour.

“Oh fine welcome I get, haven’t you heard the one about not taking it out on the messenger,” the old man’s good temper was not going to be beaten.

Mac glared at his companion, but it was too late.  Adam had piqued his curiosity with that little disclosure and it must have shown in his face, because there was a reaction.

“Lighten up, Duncan, I bring good news,” the dark figure bowed with a flourish that bespoke his light humour and he was grinning widely as he straightened once more.

The Highlander made a face, he still wasn’t in the mood for the eccentric Immortal’s antics.

“Alright,” Pierson waved dismissively at him, “I’ll come clean.  Richie’s in Paris.”

Duncan’s reaction was swift and without thought, he grabbed his coat, spun his comrade on his heal and was headed out of the door before the other could open his mouth once more.  Emotions mixed in his spirit, but whatever they were, they came out in an urgency.

“Where?” the man demanded of Adam as he herded him out on deck.

“He’s with a friend of mine,” came the reply, and the shorter man turned on his friend.

MacLeod stopped as the researcher became a surprisingly strong wall between him and the gangplank.  He glared at his companion for a second time, all the worry in his being expressing itself in the angry stare.  Yet, Methos was more in control of his thoughts and revealed his reason for halting the bustle.

“Slow down, Duncan,” he spoke calmly and reasonably, “the kid is more than a little screwed up right now, and the last thing he needs is you charging around like you’re possessed again.  He’s safe and he’ll wait.  I suggest we walk to my friend’s place, and talk on the way, there are some things you need to know.”

Any other time, the Highlander would have argued, but he’d been in the wrong the last time he’d encountered his pupil and it made him unsteady.   He was excited by the news, worried by the description, guilty because of the knowledge that he had caused the trouble, and he wanted to deny the reason in his comrade’s tone.  After a moment’s bristling pause, the man sagged a little at the shoulders, and his face showing some of what lay behind his haste; he nodded.

“Lead the way, Adam,” he murmured more sanely.

~

Dreams can be a blessing and a curse.  Man cannot function without them, but they can trouble the sleeper.  Richie’s subconscious was worse than his conscious; his sleep pattern was erratic and so were his dreams.   He didn’t like to give in to the nightmares, but he was so tired.  This was where the battle was run again, moment by agonising moment, from the approach of another Immortal to the deafening shots from a Watcher’s pistol.  Yet this time, the desperate fight was not as he remembered it, even in sleep.

\- The kata was intense, a way of concentrating his energies and thoughts away from the danger that Duncan was facing.  All the talk of Dark Quickenings and good going bad was worrying, and however much he hated to admit it, he was scared for his ally. -

Ryan recalled the emotions in himself so completely, they were etched on his memory by the trauma that had followed.

\- The touch on his spirit caused momentary angst, this was it, the time when he found out just how powerful the Hayoka had been.  Duncan could walk through that door, or it could be the another with a taste for his Quickening; the youth stayed poised, his breath short, his gaze centred on the entrance.  Relief flooded the young Immortal as he laid eyes on his comrade. -

In remembrance, that comfort was nothing more than a stick to beat the battered soul, it had been a false hope driven by trust and friendship, qualities that had been abandoned by the nightmare that walked into the dojo.

\- Disbelief was his overwhelming emotion, coupled with horror as the sword came up at him.  This was insane, there was something very wrong with the Highlander, his features were the same, but they could have belonged to a different person the way that they were used to convey such dispassion. -

Richie shifted in sleep, the first terrible images of the darkness in Duncan’s soul being strong enough to impact on his physical as well as mental form.  Yet they did not wake him.  His mind still played through the horrible fight.  There wasn’t much coherence in the youth’s dream after the initial decent into delirium, it was a mess of steel and pain as the tormentor had played with his victim, enjoying the game, laughing at the anger, triumphant in sure victory.  It hadn’t just been slices he’d taken out of his flesh, each dig had done its job to break through the trust that had been the founding stone of their relationship.

\- He was on his knees and there was no fight left in him.  His flesh stung, his soul ached and any belief that Richard Ryan had ever had in his mentor was utterly destroyed.  He looked up at the victor, using the last ounce of strength he had to focus the anger which was all the emotion he had left.  Why? The question burnt into his spirit as he seethed it through gritted teeth - his only reply was the sword’s razor edge running ominously round his throat.  The man he had called friend was laughing at him, an easy kill, there can only be one and it would not be Richard Ryan.  The young man tensed and his world went black as he closed his eyes against the horror his teacher had become. -

Richie tensed as the dream intensified, this was where he woke screaming, yet there was no piercing sound of a pistol to wake him this time and he remained trapped in that dark moment where only his emotions were evident.  All the anger, loss, bewilderment, loathing, disappointment, every cold thought which had driven him away from his home welled up inside the young man in that blackness. He had no control over it now, this wasn’t even his memories, something else possessed his nightmare, something far worse than what had already passed.  The youth moaned as even the slim hold he had over his thoughts slipped away.

\- The blackness became vivid colour too rapidly to be comfortable even to the mind’s eye; what was revealed was even more disagreeable.  There was a creature on his knees, at the mercy of another, but this time the dreamer saw with the eyes of the dominator.  His rapier glinted and there was a rush of adrenaline as he swung the blade towards Tomas’ neck. -

Ryan screamed, his sound long and horrified, and he ripped himself from sleep.  The wild creature was in effect once more as he pushed himself away from the old man, possessed by the nature of his thoughts.  China broke under his feet as he scrabbled away from the message in his dream, and his companion fell away from him.  Yet, a hand grabbed his jacket, surprisingly strong and caught him off balance.  He fell back to the floor and came face to face with the blind eyed old man.

“What did you see?” the question was urgent and concerned.

Yet, the young man couldn’t tell him, couldn’t admit the destruction in his mind.  Had he come that far down the road of desperation, that he could even contemplate taking a defenceless man’s head?  Only a sob escaped his mouth, and he tried to pull away.  His limbs were weak, disoriented by the sudden flight from dreams, and Tomas maintained the intensity of his stare.  The feral man shuddered at the question that remained, cold and shocked beyond his senses.  He had been offered nothing but kindness from this unusual ancient and the sight of his own blade descending towards the undefended neck kept replaying over before his eyes, merging with reality and making it a dangerous place.

“I took your head,” he moaned quietly, all the repugnance the idea inspired coming through the terror in his tone.

That was it, Tomas blinked and freed the creature in front of him.  There wasn’t so much shock on his face as resignation, and in some ways, that was worse for the horrified Immortal.  He tore away from the finger which touched him and ran; it was a natural instinct returning after such a short time of peace, and it took him over with cold ease.  He had to leave, to separate himself from the mystic, he would not become what he so hated.  Tears were hot in his eyes as he tumbled down the stairs and away from the comfort he had found.

~

They been walking for about an hour, and the short October day was beginning to turn cold as evening drew on.  The pair strolled in easy conversation, the elder with his hands driven deep into his pockets in relaxed companionship.  Duncan had found Methos’ little tale somewhat hard to swallow at first, but he’d experienced enough in the past few months to start accepting things that weren’t tangible.  The old man had answered any questions he had, but to be honest, he hadn’t been very interested in most of it, Richie was the subject that was playing on his mind.  Adam’s more detailed description of the state in which he had arrived at Tomas’ house had chilled the experienced Immortal to the bone; he had expected anger, hostility, but the complete shambles of humanity had made his guilt all the stronger.  There were times he had underestimated his pupil’s passion, times when it had shocked him and now the effects of his own actions on the young man seemed staggering.  Sometimes he forgot how much the young put into everything they did, in Richie’s case it had been his all, and he’d almost lost it to the power of the Dark Quickening.

“Nearly there,” Adam brought the Highlander out of the comfortable silence of friends that had fallen.  “Now don't expect too much, underneath he may want to talk to you, but his mind’s not in control all the time at the moment.  If he snarls it’ll probably be a sign of affection.”

The researcher grinned, but Mac couldn’t quite gel with his sense of humour today.  In four hundred years, he’d made a lot of mistakes, but nothing which had such life-shattering consequences for another.

“Ease up, MacLeod, we don't need two emotional wrecks,” the watcher patted his comrade’s arm supportively. “Be strong, be the MacLeod he remembers, show him you’re back, then you can deal with the apologies later.”

“I’ll try,” Duncan returned, mildly annoyed at his unusual lack of self-possession.

Methos smiled again and then turned smartly to the steps leading up to the town house.  Duncan saw his shoulders tense and glanced rapidly up to the door.  The large black portal was wide open and the sudden alarm in his comrade told the Highlander that all was not well.

~

Adam’s peace of mind evaporated as he took in the atrium, the door was always unlocked, but never so blatantly open.  He was moving with speed created from dread in a heart beat.  He flew up the stairs barely aware of the effort involved, his mind centred on terrible ideas that had occasionally plagued his psyche.  Tomas was old, completely unable to protect himself, and he’d left him alone in the house with only a frenzied youth for company.  Methos was swearing to himself in languages too old to be known to even the greatest scholar as he slammed through the half open door to find his ancient comrade.  The man halted rapidly, feeling the closeness of MacLeod as he nearly crashed into him, as he took in the sight before.  The floor was a mess, dark stains and broken crockery covered the area in front of the cushions, but what touched the old man’s heart was his bent old friend.  Tomas was rocking a mournful, quiet wail coming from his mouth, and he held his head in his hands.  Methos had never seen the normally calm creature show such emotion.  He skidded rapidly over to the frail form and took him by the shoulders.

“Tomas?” he asked, his voice subdued and worried, “what happened?”

There was so much age in those old features as they came up to stare blindly into his face.

“I made a mistake,” the ancient mumbled in distress, “I let him dream.”

“Where’s Richie?” Duncan questioned, his voice tense as he approached the pair.

“He ran again,” was the aggrieved reply.

Methos was torn between the woe in his old friend and the pot of heady emotions in the Highlander.  Duncan was almost to the door by the time the watcher called out, “Duncan, wait.”

“I have to find him,” came the response as the figure disappeared out of the room.

Tomas was the dark man’s immediate concern, MacLeod could look after himself.  The Immortal turned back to his comrade and was perturbed by the look on the creased face.

“There are things you must know,” the old man whispered, bowing his head once more.


	3. Chapter 3

The warm day had turned into a clear, freezing night and Richard Ryan sat on the stone steps, curled around his knees, buried deep in the horrors of his own chill psyche.  He’d arrived at the bridge with the same kind of direction that had led him to Paris.  This was the place he had waited for MacLeod when he’d gone to face Martin Hyde, then there’d been something to wait for, to hope, now he was just here for the comfort of familiarity.  It was really very little warmth in the ice of his soul, just a reminder of how much things had changed: a few years ago, he’d been a thief, sly, self-reliant, oblivious to the nature within himself; then he’d become part of a family, befriended, trusted.  The revelation of Immortality had been strange, but MacLeod had helped him through it, even after their relationship changed so dramatically with his first Quickening.  Now, had he finally reached what it was to truly be one of his kind, to be alone, and to care only for the Prize?  The question was cold, but it had to be answered, had he become so obsessed with survival that he could betray offered friendship and take an easy head?  He had no Dark Quickening to blame for what he had become, only his own fears had brought him to the horror in his thoughts.  The scene ran over and over in his mind, stark and definite, and Richie buried his head in his knees trying to force it away.

~

The Highlander hung back from the wreck of a creature he watched; a few more steps and he’d alert the huddled ball to his presence, but as yet he stayed back, appalled by the condition of his one-time apprentice.  The clothes were the same, the features were the same, but something irrevocable had changed inside the young man Duncan remembered to make him the feral being that sat separate and tormented on the gentle descent.  There was no hint of the lines that had once foretold of an easy smile, there were other, deeper, darker edges to the young face that was so quickly hidden from view.  If Methos’ description had not been enough, now the Clansman realised without a doubt what he had done to his ‘son’.

The Scot had been charging all over Paris, possessed by the thought of losing track of his wayward pupil again.  Eventually, he’d given up trying to follow his head, he listened to instinct, and surprised himself with the accuracy of intuition.  It was late, he was tired, but the weariness in his limbs seemed insignificant compared to the exhaustion he read in the youthful body.  Duncan drew in all the courage and calm he could muster and took the final few steps into range of the young Immortal.

~

Alarm was putting it mildly, as Richie felt the approach of another of his race,  he scrambled to his feet and slammed defensively into the low balustrade.  His eyes were wild and alert as he scanned the area for the threat.  He’d left his sword where it lay beside Tomas’ cushions and the vulnerability he felt showed in his startled disposition.  He was on his toes, ready to run, when his gaze fell on the tall, dark figure from his past.  The youth couldn’t define the mess of emotion that the sight gave him, so instead he tried to mask it with cool detachment.  He hardened his features and stood his ground as the Highlander made a slow approach.

“Hello, Rich,” the smooth, calm tones greeted him as Duncan stopped a diplomatic few feet away.

There was a moment’s pause, equilibrium in the silent night as one man hung back and another was lost in indecision.  Yet, it would not last; Ryan found any choice was no longer his as emotion broke through the defensive wall.  It was quiet at first, a deceptively low harbinger of feelings as he hissed through gritted teeth, “You bastard, MacLeod!”

Duncan was a statue, he displayed no response to the seething retort, except for the slightest hint of pain that clouded his sight.  It seemed he sensed the storm coming and merely waited; the younger Immortal could not hold back the tumult and his voice crescendoed as the accusation flew, “Do you know what you did to me?!”

Now there was emotion on Duncan’s face, it showed guilt, sympathy, apology.  The young man turned away from it, too full of his own pain to deal with another’s.  He grabbed the stonework, using it’s cold support to keep himself upright as water misted his vision and his balance lurched sideways.  His body had picked a great time to tell him it was running low on energy.  There was too much in the pot of passion, that was all his soul had left, to control his mind, let alone his body, and he began to visibly shake, his hold of the wall being the only stable point and he leant over it.

“I’m sorry, Rich,” Duncan disclosed quietly, his voice thick with emotion; it was a tone the youth had heard only rarely, when Tessa had died, when he’d been sent his own way, yet now, in the face of such intensity, it seemed thin, pathetic.

Richie laughed bitterly, his short time with Tomas had shown him just how far away from society he had moved in the lost months and sorry didn’t cut it.  He wasn’t sure what would, maybe time, maybe the need in his soul to forgive, but not yet.  For now he hated the fact MacLeod looked so normal, sounded as he remembered, had been able to return to his former self while he was still caught in the whirlpool of the evil Quickening.

“I trusted you, MacLeod,” he spat, his volume lower, but no less vehemence in his tone.

“I can’t take back what happened, Richie,” the Highlander began, and the youth tensed obviously as he felt the man come nearer; the approach stopped and was replaced with, “but I want to try and make things better between us.”

“I can’t even make myself better, let alone anything else,” the youth murmured hopelessly, losing much of his fire as he admitted himself to the care in the other’s tone.

The young man hunched over the balustrade, trying to quell the trembling in his limbs; he failed miserably.  He couldn’t hold onto the hate that was easy, he had to face the root of his emotions, and they were more difficult, more to do with himself than his companion.  Yet, the Clansman was there, and he was an ear to listen to a confession.

“I took heads, Duncan,” the exhausted being disclosed, his voice frightened by the depth of what he was about to divulge, “I know it because I remember Quickenings.  I don't know how many, and I have no idea who or why.  They could have been women, children, old men, but I just don’t know.  God, I think I even have it inside me to go after Tomas.  What has happened to me, Mac?”

The reply was not one he expected; hands took him by the shoulders and spun him almost viciously round, and he cringed away from the power in his companion’s face.  His mentor came almost nose to nose with him and there was nowhere else for him to look save into the heat in those dark eyes.  Yet, the anger wasn’t aimed directly at the weakening form, but at the doubt in the injured soul.  The Scot was plain as he spoke hotly, “You may have given up on yourself, Richie, but the rest of the world hasn’t.  Don't ever think yourself capable of that kind of hunting, it isn’t in you.  It was in me, the night I came back into the dojo for you, and it was in me when I killed a very old, dear friend, but it was *never* part of you!  I’ve known cold-bloodied killers, and you certainly aren’t one of them, not even like this.  You didn’t go for Methos when he was unarmed, did you?” the young man shook his head meekly, dominated by the force holding him.

Duncan was obviously sickened by the lack of fight in his companion, and he let go, moving back and staring wordlessly up at the sky for a few moments.  The youth watched him, confused and feeling the effects of more than twenty four hours without food.  MacLeod had drained what energy he had left in the short attack of rage.  The dark eyes were softer when they returned from heaven, and there was a mute understanding in them.  The young man blinked back at him, weary, but finding that his shivering was easing.

“You were always wild and impulsive,” the Highlander observed with a difficult smile, “and we’ve both made our share of mistakes - God knows this is the biggest screw up of all and it’s all *mine*.  But I *know* you, and even when you were at your maddest, you always had a reason for everything.  Whoever those Quickenings belonged to, they weren’t defenceless.  Whatever you think of me, believe in yourself.”

Why did Duncan always talk so much sense?!  Ryan was angry again, but only for a moment, frustrated by the sanity in his companion while his own being wavered between savagery and civilisation.  It was merely a momentary distraction from the loneliness in his soul and that is what filled his visage as the spark died.  The battered creature was too tired to hide what he felt anymore, and there was no anger left in him, directed at MacLeod or otherwise.  It had been one of the barriers against the terror, and all his defences were running low now.  Loneliness, fear, basic instinct was all that was left and there were no more words.  Once he would have trusted the Immortal before him without a thought, now there was no other option.

Exhaustion was an unpredictable travelling companion, and one moment, the gaze was locked and conveying so much, the next Ryan felt his legs begin to give way and the world lurched once more.  He could do nothing else but let himself slide gracelessly down the wall.  Yet, strong arms caught him and he relaxed into the Highlander’s hold as disorientation made his stomach churn and his vision spin.

“Whoa there!” Duncan breathed, righting his companion half between himself and the wall.  “You really should take better care of yourself, Rich.”

“Junk food’ll do it every time,” Richie murmured, or at least he tried to, but the words mixed up in his mouth.

Mac got the message however, and there was relief in his laugh of response.  The young man smiled even as his eyes closed and he swooned again; things were beginning to heal.

~

Duncan had returned to the barge to fetch his car when initial searches had proved fruitless, and he was glad of it’s proximity as Richie became almost a dead weight.  The Highlander managed to get the youth’s arm around his shoulders and he hauled him, stumbling towards the waiting vehicle.  In a way, he was relieved that the failing Immortal had trusted him enough to let go, but that didn’t mute the concern for the state of his companion’s health.  The travel-weary being was thinner than he should have been, all muscle and bone, no fat reserves left and it was quite obvious just how little he had been eating.  His skin was tanned, but was rapidly turning grey as the stamina which had kept him going drained away and, although his eyes were open and he was trying to stay upright, he wasn’t much help.

The pair slammed into the hood of the car as Richie made one lurch too many.  The young man groaned and stayed leant over the long nose where Duncan left him as he searched for his keys.  A laugh escaped his mouth and he murmured, “Ouch,” but it sounded distant, and almost delirious to the worrying Scot.  The Immortal decided that whatever Methos and Tomas had started could wait, his friend needed food and a lot of rest - a phone-call would suffice when they reached the barge.

~

The world spun again and Richie sunk down further into the car seat, closing his eyes; he’d taken out a very large loan on will power over the last couple of months, and nature was making him pay for it all at once.  He leant his head against the window and let the pitching in his body ease off.  He hadn’t realised just how much he’d been running on adrenaline, but it was quite plain now.  He groaned as his stomach complained loudly, he couldn’t say he had much appetite, but his gut was burning, demanding something to fill it.  That was where MacLeod had gone, into the gas station where they had stopped to furnish him with a fast energy fix.  If it hadn’t been for hunger, the young man would have slept, his limbs had turned to lead and his thoughts to grey nothingness.

Ryan started and opened his eyes rapidly as his body gave him an unexpected adrenaline burst.  It was nothing more than the Immortal warning signal to tell him another was close, but he hadn’t moved far enough down the path to normality for it to wash over even his exhausted consciousness. He sighed and mentally chided himself for the momentary slip as he eyes fell on the logical source of the supernatural touch, Duncan returning, grocery bag in arms.  It was like being a new-born again, jumpy and uncertain of the meaning of the shift in his soul, yet now, there was little fascination or novelty about the alarm which just frustrated his need to sleep.

Still, instinct was a difficult thing to circumvent after using it so intensely, and the youth caught himself eyeing Duncan’s movements as he opened the vehicle door and took his seat.  Only as the tall Scot met the silent stare did he drop the wary observation, a little guilt in his face.  Whether his comrade saw it, or not, he chose to ignore it and began rummaging through the buy.

“Here,” the Highlander offered warmly, holding out a steaming, delicious smelling croissant under the young man’s nose; his stomach complained noisily once more and Richie grabbed the food as much to cover the sound as meet the need.

Duncan laughed momentarily, and returned his attention to the bag, source of more choice odours.  The youth just stared down at the warm pastry for a while; if truth be told, his stomach was so empty that the smell of food was a little nauseous.  Eventually, aware of the weakness in his limbs, the quiet creature took a tentative bite.

“It won’t poison you,” Duncan observed in a friendly scoff as he placed a plastic cup of coffee on the dash, but he received only a withering look for his trouble.

Ryan chided himself for the second time in a few moments as his comrade’s grin straightened and he stared guiltily down at the wheel.  Things were still awkward, and most of it was his fault.  Duncan was trying so hard to make things better and the youth couldn’t help but resist a little, a streak of self-pity which told him to make his mentor suffer like he had.  Yet, he hated the edge as soon as he noticed it.

“Sorry,” the subdued youth murmured, “I’m a little tetchy.”

It was quite a relief, if somewhat confusing to hear a snort come from the Highlander.  Duncan was shaking his head in disbelief as his brought it back up to meet the quizzical manner it inspired in the weary man.

“Tetchy doesn’t quite cover it, Rich,” he observed, irony heavy in his tone.

Richie just took another bite of his croissant, his frown aimed more at himself than the dig from his driver.

~

An hour, a phone call to Methos, and a trip to Richie’s hotel later, Duncan walked back into his barge to find his guest just wandering out of the shower.  Wrapped in a towel, free of the travel battered clothing and clean shaven, the young man looked almost human again.  His skin was grey, and his eyes still held the vague haunted look which had settled over him once he’d been able to focus again, but at least, Duncan considered, he didn’t look like he’d collapse any minute.

“Thanks,” he responded, his tone still lower than the Scot remembered, as he threw him the bag he’d gone to fetch.

“I just grabbed them at random, so don't blame me for the fashion sense,” the elder smiled at the grateful look in the other’s eyes; he couldn’t raise the grin he wanted to see, but things were improving.

They hadn’t spoken much the rest of the way back to the barge; Richie had finished half the pastry and taken a couple of sips of coffee before slipping into a light doze; Duncan had been happy to let him sleep.  The young Eternal had still looked decidedly peaky when they’d arrived at the river, having nearly hit the roof of the car when his comrade tapped him on the shoulder to wake him, but he had been able to get himself to the boat while the Clansman left to fetch him some fresh clothes from his hotel.

Now silence fell again, as each man failed to find something to say to his associate.  Duncan could see something in his young friend’s face, a need to talk, a wont for knowledge, but a lack of confidence to begin; this was going to take time.  The more experienced being chose not to labour the awkward silence, so with a smile, he turned from the uncertain stare and strolled into the main living area.  He wandered around for a bit, fixing himself a drink, looking out the portholes at the same view he saw every day, anything to keep his attention off his visitor and allow the youth at least a little peace in the open-plan home.

Eventually, his patience was rewarded as a body approached him.  Richie had dressed quickly, leaving out extras such as feet-covering, but he’d hung back.  He’d sat almost motionless on the corner of the bed, glancing occasionally down the steps at the ‘oblivious’ back of his host, but most of the time at his hands resting on his knees.  The Highlander was waiting when he began his tentative descent into the main room.  Duncan remained staring out of the porthole, giving the youth a chance to gather himself, and he smiled to himself as he heard the opening word, “Mac....?”

The familiarity was returning.

The elder was still smiling, but with more reserve as he responded and swivelled to face his companion.  He was not about to make this difficult for the subdued young man, and he held out one of the two tumblers of whisky he’d been cradling for the last quarter of an hour.  Richie was caught off guard by the offering and glanced down at the amber liquid, his tired, but relentlessly active brain taking a few moments to register the meaning.  Then, slowly, he took the glass.

“Can we talk?” the request then followed.

Duncan nodded, and led the way to the sofa.

Once seated, both men stared into their glasses for a few moments, it was Richie’s lead, and he seemed to be having difficulty finding the words, so once more, his mentor waited.

“Have you ever lost it like this, Mac?” the enquiry came at last, as the youth looked up and his tone expressed all the anxiety he was feeling, “I mean, so badly that you don't remember what you did.”

Duncan took in a deep breath and considered his answer carefully.

“Yes,” he sighed, feeling some of the pain in memory that he had felt the first time through, “I’ve told you what I was like when Little Deer and Kahani were slaughtered, I hunted and nothing else.  I was possessed and only Jim Coltec brought me out of it.  There are times during that period that I can’t remember to this day, but most of it comes back eventually, Rich.  You’re too tired to even think straight at the moment, when you’ve had time to rest up, you’ll begin to sort it all out.”

That admission created a vaguely worried frown on the young visage, and it didn’t take much for Duncan to realise at what the concern was aimed.

“What has happened has happened, Richie,” the Highlander disclosed sympathetically, “you can’t change it, but you will want to remember it eventually.  Whatever you did, whose heads you took, you can’t go back now, you can only learn from the past.”

Ryan looked down at his glass again, but he was staring through it, focused on nothing, looking inside.  Eventually, he smiled, a small, anxious gesture, but it added a sparkle to his washed out persona.  There was vague humour in the irony of his tone as he questioned, “Were you born sensible, Duncan MacLeod, or did it take practice?”

The Highlander snorted and then took a swig of his drink; his manner was easier as he admitted with a wry grin, “Took about four hundred years.  I was worse than you when I was young, but hot blood was the sign of a warrior then - still is today,” Richie chuckled at he underhanded compliment. “My temper led me into more than one fight and my manhood into more than one lass’ bed.”

The younger Immortal laughed, not for very long due to his low energy levels, but he leant back into the sofa with a returning confidence around his comrade.  Duncan laughed with him, relieved by the freedom in his companion’s sound.  He remembered a night around a campfire, when two men had talked in the true sense of the word and he wondered if that sort of closeness would ever return to the strained relationship; the Clansman hoped so.  For now, he was the one with sufficient drive to continue the conversation, so he launched into an anecdote.  Richie relaxed on the cushions, tumbler rested on one knee and listened with a distant, ghost of a smile playing over his lips and his eyes beginning to close as his friend announced, “I remember one time....”

Duncan caught the glass as his listener finally nodded all the way into slumber and his hand released the forgotten beverage untouched.  The Scot smiled at the peaceful shape of the young features and stood to find his own bed, it was not late, but the stresses of the day had had their affect on him as well.


	4. Chapter 4

October was being its traditional self the next morning, grey and threatening rain; there was a calm over the city, only disturbed by the occasional rumbling of the high, almost purple cloud, that, promised a downpour, but kept hold of its water.  Methos couldn’t help wondering what storm this strange peace heralded; there was a feeling in his bones that it wasn’t just the weather and the conversation he and his oldest comrade had had the previous evening only went to solidify the instinct.  Still, it was a wonderful morning, powerful to anyone with the ability to feel it, and the ancient chose not to dwell on the future.  Portents were Tomas’ realm and all the Watcher chose to deal with at the early hour, at which he took a walk, was returning the sword which Richie had abandoned.  That was how he came to be leaning on the wall overlooking the river and watching a comforting scene.

The dark man smiled to himself, as he remained out of range of the activity he didn’t want to disturb.  Two Immortals, opposites in many ways, one tall and dark the other shorter and blond, one with age in his eyes, the other still holding onto the vague naivete which came with youth - they were stood a metre apart on the roof of the boat, moving together in perfect tandem to a rhythm in the mind.  Concentration was complete, faces fixed in meditative calm, bodies relaxed, but working to their full, as they moved through a kata. The exercises were slow, perfecting balance and poise as well as working on the strength required, but there was no doubt in the viewer’s mind of the lethal nature of the kicks and punches if need be.  He was aware of being in the presence of the warrior at his most obvious, life and death rested on the skill in the trained bodies and it was not only the specific moves, but the flow of mind and flesh that made the beings below him dangerous.

Each man was inside his own mind, but at the same time working to a beat felt by both souls, the very nature of Immortal life, and Methos felt quite invigorated just watching.  He was happy to see the pair in union once more, he had always noticed something about the way the two Eternals treated each other - the student-tutor relationship was always a special one, but there was more to this one, a spark of youth against age which told him that these two were distinct from the rest of their kind.  The old man even caught himself wondering if one of them would eventually take the Prize.  The strength was back in Ryan’s eyes as he focused on the immediate, and Adam could see no sign of the wild, uncontrolled creature he had met only a few hours ago.  In sweats, his lean body concentrated on the exercise, there was no clue as to the trials suffered by the young Immortal, and the Watcher recognised peace in his face as he closed his eyes and relaxed into a knee bent, feet apart, well-balanced stance.  The two men became statues, the only movement a steady deep breathing from the abdomen.

Methos let them have their calm for a few minutes, but eventually he chose to disturb the meditation.  He was down on the dock, strolling easily towards the barge when he felt the touch of the others.  Then he was given the briefest hint that Ryan was still only on the road to recovery.  His blue eyes snapped open and his survey of the area was sharper and more alarmed than his elder companion’s.  His gaze settled as he recognised the trench-coated visitor, and he shook his head to himself as he bent to pick up a towel at his feet.

“Good morning, Gentlemen,” Adam greeted with a grin as he set foot on the gangplank, and then he made sure he met the youngest’s gaze before he disclosed, “Feeling saner today, Richie?”

The enquiry was earnest and honestly concerned, and the youth nodded, but chose not to elaborate, turning instead to awkwardly gaze at Duncan.

“Tomas will be glad to hear that,” the Fox added, but then turned swiftly to the Scot, following the quiet youth’s lead, aware that he was making the young man feel awkward; he knew how unusual the previous twenty four hours had been, even in his own experience, and now was not the time to discuss them. “Got any breakfast to offer a poor researcher?”

“Twenty minutes earlier and we’d have made you work for your food,” the Highlander laughed and waved him on board.

Methos just grinned, he admired the passion in his friends, but took his own workouts at a different pace.  Richie made no reaction to the humour, and the ancient began to realise that it wasn’t just his manner which was unsettling the youth.  He’d forgotten how much Tomas had unnerved him when they’d first met, even in a time when mystics were not uncommon, and adding his own history to that plus the nightmare of the last few months, the old man could not really blame the young Immortal for his uncouth behaviour.  He was therefore not phased when the youth mumbled an excuse and headed for the other end of the boat to that which his companions were headed.  There was worry in Duncan’s eyes as he watched the young man retreat, but he met an easy smile from his more detached comrade.

“Give him time, Duncan,” he disclosed smoothly, “I’m a shock at the best of times.  Tomas has a way of unnerving people too, between us we’re quite a lot to take.”

“He was always so forward, *too* forward,” the Highlander mused, his tone regretful.

“Duncan!” Adam chided with a pat on his back, “Yesterday he was a wreck, I’d say he’s improved a hundred fold.”

The Scot just shrugged and led the way into his home.

~

The water felt so good running over his skin - it was a long time since Ryan has taken the thought needed to appreciate the massage of a decent shower.  He’d been too tired to care the night before, but now the droplets felt so pleasant on his worked muscles.  The young man leant his head against the wall and relaxed as the cascade tingled down his spine.  Yet the water couldn’t wash away the dissatisfaction with the way he had dealt with Methos.  It wasn’t that the man himself made him uncomfortable, the Highlander was a legend in Immortal circles as well; it wasn’t even embarrassment at how he had acted the day before, he was beyond regret for that; it was the strangeness he’s been feeling since Tomas had come into his life, and Adam Pierson was a link to the wizened old man.  His rational mind was telling him that things weren’t as they seemed to his instinct, but still there was the touch on his soul that said something had changed in his life yesterday, not something related directly to anything that had gone before, something new had begun.  His psyche had altered in the months since the Dark Quickening, he noticed the new edge to his persona that wasn’t going to be blunted as quickly as it had been sharpened, and it was that raw edge which was telling him that Tomas was not a crank and recognised the turn his path of life had taken.

The dream of the old man’s beheading still hung in his thoughts, muted by the rational new day, but none-the-less worrying.  He couldn’t say why, after all, his experience told him it was only a dream, a subconscious formation of thoughts, but its impact remained.  As his mind tumbled, the young man came to the conclusion that there was still a lot he had to sort out, the decision was a comfortable one, an admission that was a healer in itself.  There was a lot of thinking to be done, alone and in company, but for now, he needed to do it alone.

The youth was feeling more at ease with the idea of Tomas’ mysticism once he’d admitted to himself that he didn’t have to rush his acceptance of it.

~

Adam was pleasantly surprised to receive a smile of welcome from the blond youth when he exited from the bathroom, presentable in both mind and body.  He recognised more of the man he had briefly known, and grinned back as the young man joined them in the living room.

“Sorry for blanking you,” Richie apologised with no lack of directness, as he took a seat, “It took Duncan two years to civilise me and I’ve sorta regressed.”

Methos laughed and observed, “Blanking is better than a sword in the face any day.”

Ryan gave him an apologetic look that said butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, and raised another chuckle, from Duncan this time as well.

“Talking of swords,” the ancient continued, reaching down behind the sofa and picking up the rapier he’d placed there, “I think this belongs to you.”

Richie took the weapon and held it up, gazing up and down its blade with a loving care that all Immortals who wanted to survive had for their first line of defence.

“Thank you,” he replied gratefully, “I feel kinda naked without this nearby.”

Methos and Duncan just looked at each other, they had no need to vocalise the similar feelings they harboured.

“Well,” the old man glanced back over to the him as the youth lowered the blade and pressed on, “I have to get going, thanks for letting me crash here, Duncan.”

The Scot stood up rapidly as his guest got to his feet and his mouth opened to make a protest.  Adam just watched the two men, leaving them to this moment themselves.  He’d seen purpose in Richie’s manner the moment he’d stepped into view and he’d suspected something like this.  Ryan was quicker to more words than the Highlander and he argued, “Don’t worry Duncan, I’m not gonna disappear again, I just need to sort some things out, practical as well as in my head - you should see my laundry pile,” he grinned, but only raised a dissatisfied purse of the lips from Duncan; the young man continued, “I’ll phone you later, *Mom*, I promise.”

The Watcher sniggered at the sarcasm, but shut up as he received a glare from his host.

“Oops,” he looked to Richie and shrugged, the young man smiled.

The healing Immortal straightened quickly however and replied to the concern in his comrade’s eyes.

“I’ll be okay, Mac,” he breathed earnestly and let the elder see the vague anxiety that still haunted him.  “I just need to do some thinking.”

There was a moment when Methos wondered if the Highlander was about to object again, but there was only a pause and then he nodded silently.  Before there was any chance for another response, Richie turned and grabbed the bag he’d brought out of the bathroom with him.  The rapier slid easily into the hold-all and then, with one final, grateful glance to both men, the young Eternal was gone.

Methos stood and patted his comrade on the shoulder; MacLeod still had a worried frown on his face.

“He can take care of himself, MacLeod,” the old man advised, with as much confidence as possible, but he couldn’t help his own pang of anxiety; the storm was near to breaking.

~

There was plenty of time to do everything and Ryan was taking life easy; he was enjoying the lack of pace after so long living on the edge and he’d actually enjoyed the mundane tasks of a visit to the laundrette and getting a descent haircut.  He’d returned to his hotel and done his best to clean the dust off his jacket, and the brown leather had gone from beige to its original rich chocolate with a touch of burgundy.  He’d made sure he’d eaten a decent midday meal and the afternoon became the time for thinking.  He’d just started walking, exploring the city without much thought for where he was going and more for the mental promenade which accompanied the physical exercise.

Tomas had made his position in the scheme of things less than clear, he was The Savage, that was all he knew, further than that, his role was a mystery.  The idea worried him a little now that he recognised the roller coaster beginning to start.  Idly, he wondered if Methos had felt the same way when he’d first stepped onto the ride - it certainly didn’t seem to be bothering him at five thousand.  Yet he’d already been party to the air of mystery the old man liked to keep about himself, whether he admitted it or not, and he felt a vague resignation to discovering information when it was intended.  Richard Ryan was a practical creature by nature, as he’d once told MacLeod, if he couldn’t see it right there, it wasn’t real, but that had begun to change when Immortality had reared it’s head, first as MacLeod and then in himself.  Now, he was more open to possibility and he couldn’t shake acceptance of the unusual qualities of the pale mystic.  He had very little grasp of what he’d unwittingly become a part, but he felt it as keenly as if he’d known it all along.  He chose to push that thought to the back of his mind, there were other considerations that had to be sorted first, before he would even be capable of whatever Tomas had in mind.

Richie Ryan was a battered amnesiac, and there was still very little clue as to his actions in the missing months.  Ideas, feelings flowed through his brain, mostly extremes of emotion: hate - of what he was unsure, maybe the parody of MacLeod the Dark Quickening had created; fear - of his own kind, all of them, no matter what race, creed, gender, age, all were associated with betrayal; pain - however he had spent his time, there was physical as well as mental anguish, the Quickenings had not come easy, and the young man was a little grievous that he didn’t even have a scar to give him a clue to those battles.  As he walked further into his psyche, the images were becoming sharper, preparing to lead to actual recollections, but the journey was slow and full of dead ends.

The young man was lost both in the city and in his mind by the time he was brought swiftly back to reality.  Basic survival instinct nagged at his thought-lost being and eventually brought him back to the real world with a dagger of alarm.  His eyes had been gazing ahead, but not really seeing more than enough to stop him colliding with people and objects.  Yet, some part of him was still alert, watchful for danger, and the sight three men apparently  strolling nonchalantly ahead of him and the instinct that there were more behind, was what brought him back to the present.  Adrenaline erupted into his system as the situation became suspicious.  He had wandered down a back street, deserted until the three large hulks had moved past his slow pace; that hadn’t bothered, him, but their whispers and occasional glances back at him, had begun to tweak his interest.

One of the trio looked back again and recognised the youth’s return to reality and the hardening of his features.  He tapped his comrade’s shoulders, and Ryan halted smartly as the threesome turned around.  He was passive as they approached, aware of them and two set of footfalls behind him; his alert senses picked out a knife at one of the men’s belts, another slid a nunchaku from under his coat, the third in his view was wearing a knuckle-duster.

“Anything I can do for you gentlemen?” Ryan questioned, his tone icy cold, his being poised for them.

They were large men, none of them looked particularly intelligent and their bulk was only partly muscle, these were thugs and it was obvious that their intent was violence.  They seemed over-confident, smiling in a triumph that mis-assessment of their victim created.  Their only response to his enquiry was from the knife-bearer, who pulled out the dirty blade and waved it in the young Immortal’s direction.  Richie didn’t even flinch, the first move wouldn’t be coming from that direction.  The youth couldn’t help the rush of excitement that ran through his system - he was a warrior by nature and the prospect of a fight was not altogether unpleasant.  His eyes flashed and his body tensed as he heard the movement behind him; he reacted as soon as he felt the first attempt to grab him.

A hand grabbed his right wrist, it was swiftly removed by a flick up of the elbow a twist and then the weight of an arm coming down on the limb.  Ryan grinned despite himself as he heard the sickening crack of bone and the howl of the unseen attacker.  Yet, there was no time to pause as the first hoodlum fell away, there was another lout on his left shoulder.  Now was the time that hours spent in repetitive kata was rewarded, and his movement was smooth and precise as he leant slightly forward, raised his left elbow and jabbed backwards.  A grunt and then he swung his fist downwards - this was not a pretty situation and his attack was coldly efficient as the other collapsed to his knees, the faint moan, that only comes with one specific injury, on his lips.  The young fighter was already half leaning forward, so he leant a little further and twisted to bring his leg up in a final kick to the face to finish the second opponent, then he fell into a well aimed roll past the trio, who hadn’t even moved yet.

As he easily rolled to his feet behind them, and the three men turned, their faces told the combatant that they were reassessing their prey.  He could have run now, he was a lot lighter and easily faster than the gang, but the youth was pissed at their sudden assault and far more, he wanted to know why.  The speed with which he’d dealt with the two crumpled forms on the asphalt gave him enough confidence to stand his ground.  He stayed still where he stopped, feet slightly apart, knees bent enough to flex at any skirmish, and he smiled at the more wary oafs, the glint of conviction in his glare.

“Any of you Neanderthals care to join your friends?” it was a big word for Richard Ryan, he’d come a long way in four years and he liked the ability to word play.

There was not a lot of comprehension on the three faces, but the hulk with the nunchaku eventually gathered that the delivery was an insult.  His face clouded and he flexed the nasty-looking chain.

“OO, am I supposed to be worried?” Richie baited very successfully.

He was quite glad that they appeared to be attacking him one at a time, and was more than ready for the charge of the leather-clad yob.  It became quickly obvious that the man’s chosen weapon was for show rather than because he was good with it, and a duck and a quick chop to his ribs and the attacker staggered backwards.  So far, Ryan had been the only one to lay a punch.  Yet, the youth stepped rapidly away as the fallen’s buddies decided that two on one would be fairer.  The knuckle-duster missed, but the young man grunted as the filthy blade caught him across the stomach.  He retaliated with a hefty side-kick which sent the man to join his fake martial-artist comrade in a mess on the ground.  As they tried to untangle themselves, the young Immortal gave his full attention to the last remaining member of the assault team.  Amusement had turned to focused anger in the blond youth when his flesh had been sliced and there had been the full power of anger in the blow - the oaf left on his feet had fear in his eyes now and there was a dawning of reality that he was facing more than just some punk kid.

The scruffy man took a step back as Ryan paced towards him, but this was an alley, and he found a wall behind him.  The Eternal had fire in his eyes as he grabbed the petrified creature by the throat and slammed him into the brickwork.  The large man was a good  half-foot taller and had quite some bulk on the athletic youth, but he cowered at the steel in the visage which came close to his.

“Want to tell me why it takes five of you to jump me?” the Immortal snarled intensely, his voice low and menacing.

“Je ne comprends pas!” the other gabbled weakly.

Ryan hissed nastily, but didn’t press the question, there were two men behind him still mobile.  He smacked the lout’s head against the wall and spun on the spot as he slid down the masonry.  Knifeman and his buddy were stood side by side and it didn’t appear that they’d learnt their lessons.  The Eternal side-stepped the projectile which came at him and smashed into the wall; Richie glanced down at the broken knife and then back up at the now weaponless thrower a look of disdain on his features.

“Either of you two parlez Anglais?” he asked sharply, his patience for this distraction running low.

“I do, Shitface,” the battered nunchaku wielder spat.

“Oh what charm,” Ryan responded the sarcasm heavy in his tone, he’d had enough of this fight and these men were mortals, he didn’t want to hurt them too badly. “Well, Shakespeare, are *you* gonna tell me what this is all about.”

“Your wallet,” came the growled response.

Richie shook his head and eyed the more wary men pityingly, there was no way five louts would spend their time jumping a ‘kid’ for his money.

“Oh please, guys,” he returned pacing out away from them and the wall in case they picked another moment to restart the assault, “I’m not stupid.  Who sent you?”

“I did,” came from further up the shadowy street and the youth heard a pht.

He turned rapidly to the sound as something sharp penetrated his leg.  The young man recognised the face which was behind a silenced gun, it was one of Tomas’ men, but now there was no smile of support.  The Immortal glanced down at his leg, a little confused, it didn’t feel like a bullet - it wasn’t.  A dart had landed deep in his thigh and Richie began to feel its contents shift into his system.  Confusion was the young man’s first reaction, but then survival cut in and, rapidly, he pulled out the foreign object and ran.  He made it to within a few metres of the main street before his leg gave way and he fell to his knees.  There were footfalls behind him and the young man reached desperately up at the wall, trying to find a hold to pull himself up, but his fingers refused to take a hold.  He couldn’t find reason behind what was happening, why was someone coming at him with drugs, this definitely wasn’t the Immortal way.  Was Tomas involved, had he been betrayed *again*?  The world spun as a hand grabbed his collar and he struck out in fury at the body behind him. This time he was dealing with a trained man, he could feel it as his blow was effortlessly deflected and his wrist caught. Ryan snarled more at the idea of another betrayal than at the form that had a vice-like grip on his arm.

“Bastard,” he slurred and tried to wriggle away, but his senses were failing him too rapidly to make him any  match for the strength in the body holding him.

Richie was helpless as the drug finally took full affect and his eyes rolled in his head.


	5. Chapter 5

A growl, low, menacing, demonstrating discomfort was the first reaction to returning to consciousness.  Then a hand slapped him round the face and Richie snarled and tensed towards his unseen attacker, the memory of his capture still fresh.  Yet, the aggressive Immortal found his hands tied behind him  and he slammed back into solid metal as the owner of the hand shoved him away.  The same palm pushed him  easily into the wall of the van which slowly came into focus along with the face of his assailant.  It wasn’t who he was expecting, and momentarily, the remnants of Immortal presence on his soul caught up with his dazed brain.  The visage before him was olive-skinned and dark-eyed, and white-teeth showed in a wide, nasty, triumphant grin.  The Eternal was well-dressed, his suit was expensive, and it didn’t look like he was used to doing his own dirty work.  The man seemed amused by the feral nature to his captive’s awakening and there was a disdainful twinkle in his eye as he glanced over his shoulder at the figure the youth had expected to see.

“Well, well, Dimitri,” the stranger breathed to his obvious subordinate in a heavy Italian accent, “it appears that you were not exaggerating when you called him The Savage - Tomas had a way with descriptions.”

The second seemed completely disinterested, and looked away to the front of the van and the driver.  Ryan, however, was less than comfortable facing another of his kind bound and helpless and that made him angry.

“Who the hell are you?” he demanded through gritted teeth.

The captor returned his attention to his feisty prisoner and rings dug  through the youth’s T-shirt into his chest as he was forced harder against the bowing side of the vehicle.

“I, Savage, am, Garret Kildaire and, in Tomas’ words, The Heir,” he answered as though condescending to address a child.

“Heir to what, bad-taste?” Richie spat back and suffered for the quip with the back of a hand across his face.

The young Eternal was too mad to take the assault passively and he kicked out at his abductor a cry of rage on his lips.  The other fell away, not expecting the retaliation, but Dimitri was quickly in his place.  The man was large and well-trained and the youth smashed back into his seat, firmly pinned to the wall.  He complained wordlessly and flexed against the grip, but was sensible enough to realise that he was fighting a battle he could not win.

“Sit still, Savage!” Kildaire ordered hotly, his temper beginning to show, “or Dimitri here will teach you a lesson your body may forget, but your mind will not.”

The captive was hissing dangerously under his breath, but only his holder was near enough to hear, in Garret’s eyes he relaxed and merely glared intensely at him.

“You are a pawn, Boy, if Boy you really are,” the Latino told him, settling onto the other side of the van and adjusting the line of his suit, “and I have decided to use you instead of Tomas.  You see, the old man and I go back a long way, and it is finally time for his damn path to crumble under his feet.”

There was a vehemence in the other’s voice which caused Richie no little consternation; he saw the same, victorious smile on the other’s lips, but it did not reach his eyes, they only displayed a dangerous hate.

“You are my key, Savage, my way into that house of his,” Kildaire explained easily.

“You’ll get no help from me,” Ryan swore quickly.

“I don't need any *help*,” the other shook his head and gave the abductee a disdainful glance, “your presence is all I need.”

Richie growled again, he couldn’t stop the sound that seemed so natural to his present psyche, but he didn’t like the amusement it once more raised in his captor.  Yet, he was sensible enough to heed the warning he had been given, and he merely glared at the other Immortal as he produced a mobile phone.  Dimitri seemed to recognise the submission in his captive and sat back, keeping a careful eye on his mood, but otherwise content to let the youth have space to breath more comfortably.

Kildaire appeared to like the sound of his own voice, and continued as he tapped the buttons on the dial, “You see, Methos has a strange affection for all those who fall into Tomas’ little net of ‘destiny’, and as well as the old man’s head, I want his.  You are simultaneously bait and the reason for that shrivelled annoyance’s legion of body guards letting me through.  Dimitri here was kind enough to furnish me with the details of your arrival - you know, I’ve waited two hundred years to find a good mole.”

He was still grinning at Ryan’s clouded face as he put the phone to his ear and waited for an answer.

~

The phone was an unexpected annoyance - Methos had just sunk himself into a very interesting manuscript which was bringing back all sorts of memories about Rome at its height, and the distraction was most inconvenient.  He’d been daydreaming about a young lady of a professional nature and the annoying ring had cut right through a very pleasant moment when he’d finally made it into her boudoir.  His tone was therefore clipped as he picked up the receiver and spoke, “Adam Pierson, this better be good.”

“Methos,” the voice at the other end greeted, but it was a harsh sound and sent bad feelings running through the ancient Immortal

“Garret,” he was almost swearing the recognition made him feel so uncomfortable, but he was his usual collected self as he responded with irony, “What a delightful surprise, what trouble do you want to cause this time?”

“This time the old fart isn’t one step ahead of me, Methos,” came the threat, “I hold the ace this time and if you’re smart you’ll be at Tomas’ fortress in half an hour.”

“And why is that?” the dark man asked, holding onto his temper well considering his history with the annoyance at the other end of the line.

Kildaire had been known to him as ‘The Heir’, Tomas’ successor if the Gathering took him.  The man had been a new-fledged Immortal on the streets of Rome going by the name of Gipetto when he’d been found six hundred years ago, and Tomas had taken him in.  He’d been schooled in everything from mysticism (which out of Tomas’ company he had sneered at) to sword play and the old man had tried to teach him a humility that just didn’t come easily to the brash Italian.  He’d lasted four hundred years in the loose circle of Immortals that the ancient kept about him, but then his patience had run out.  In his eyes, he’d been promised an inheritance that it was time for Tomas to relinquish and he’d come a-hunting.  Methos had been in the way, his last battle, and it had been one which had turned him away from the sword.  They’d been well matched and had taken chunks out of each other, yet age had won through and he’d been faced with the task of removing the other’s head.  Gipetto, long since renamed Garret, was still the Heir, and the old Immortal had known that destroying him would mean loosing the path, so he had let him go.  Since then, he’d been an annoyance who turned up every few decades to try and make another attempt on Tomas’ Quickening, yet there had always been warnings that he would arrive and preparation were made.

Now the old man understood the edgy feelings he’d been having all day.

“Because Tomas may be a little put out if I remove one of his player from his game prematurely,” was almost shouted down the phone.

~

Richie was still glaring at Kildaire as the object was held out towards him and the order was given, “Hit him, *hard*!”

Dimitri glanced once into his victim’s eyes and the youth couldn’t read the expression; then his vision danced and breath flew out of his lungs.  The young man groaned and doubled over as a solid fist landed in his stomach, but it was a small sound.

“Again, till he screams,” the response to his breathless cough came.

The mortal warrior seemed to gather that another smack was not going to raise the volume his employer wanted.  Instead of a fist, his hand went rapidly to the bound creature’s groin and he squeezed.  Ryan resisted the need to scream as the pressure began, but as it increased, he had to let out the sound.  His cry came out more a strangled shout than anything else, but it was loud, full of pain and it satisfied Dimitri - the man released him to crumple sideways as his world faded in and out.

~

“Recognise your Savage?” Kildaire lorded down the phone.

Methos wore to himself, but kept it low and out of range of the technology, instead, his voice defying the rage that Richie’s pained scream had aroused, the old man answered, “I’ll be there.”

The phone went dead and he slammed down the receiver.

~

Methos was walking under a storm cloud, that much was very obvious to Duncan MacLeod as he watched him approach the barge.  The Highlander stood from the damage limitation on the spread of rust that had been his afternoon task.  He’d been worrying about Richie, he knew the young man was not right with himself yet, and wandering off was not something he thought advisable - that, coupled with a nasty foreboding that hung around him and the Scot has decided that it was time for some mundane distraction.  Yet, the considerations had just gone round and round in his head, nagging at him; the sight of his friend striding hotly towards his boat, no sign of his usual decorum, set off alarm bells.

“What’s happened?” he demanded, meeting the vehement presence half way down the gangplank.

“An old enemy had turned up, he grabbed Richie and he wants to meet me at Tomas’ house in twenty minutes,” the ancient seethed, “he’s quite capable of using our young friend to get to Tomas’ head, and mine, but he doesn’t seem to know about you.”

“I’ll get my sword,” the Warrior responded.

~

The world had stopped dancing with little bright spots a long time since, but Richie stayed lying down; it wasn’t particularly comfortable, but it kept Kildaire’s attention off him and that suited them both.  He was angry, mad at an Immortal who was working his way round the rules, there was nothing about kidnapping in his lore, but Kristov’s fate was running in the front of the young Eternal’s mind.  If he ever freed himself from the tight rope on his wrists, the Latino would regret he’d ever heard of the Savage.

Dimitri glanced at him occasionally, mainly his look was passive unreadability, but occasionally the youth caught a warning in his stare.  The man didn’t appear to appreciate the orders his employer had given, but then, his victim couldn’t have given a damn about what the other’s feelings were - mortal or not, he’d go down hard.

The bound form found himself thinking very unsavoury thoughts about both his captors as he was jolted out of them by the halting of the van.  Only as they stopped did Kildaire take any more notice of his prisoner.  He was grinning again, the same unconvincing smirk that he’d used before.  Ryan couldn’t help the chill that ran down his spine - it wasn’t so much the man before him, but for what he stood.  There was something unpalatable about him, an essence that was speaking to the instinct now alive in the youth.  Kildaire brought out the feral in him, the side he could not shake now it had surfaced.  The other seemed to sense something of what was in his captive and he responded with an elegant light-bladed rapier to the immobile figure’s neck.

“Don’t try anything, Savage,” he warned with quiet threat, “Dimitri will have your own sword to your neck, and if he fails, your throat will be within easy reach of my blade.”

Richie remained silent and still, resisting the urge to retaliate with either voice or body - he didn’t like steel near his neck.  He merely watched as Garret climbed out of the van, his eyes afire with the rage in his belly.  He struggled a little as his mortal captor took hold of him, but with his hands trapped behind his back he was no match for the large man.  The young man stumbled out of the vehicle, his balance controlled completely by the hand on his collar.  He swore loudly at Kildaire’s subordinate, but there was no response from the self-present man save for the raising of his own blade to his neck.  The other Immortal was already striding across the deserted street to the familiar door and the prisoner was pushed after him.  Dimitri was close behind him, keeping him well covered with the blade somewhat large for its current task.  He had some advice for his maddened captive.

“Shut up, stay close and when I tell you, get out of the way,” the mortal told him in a whisper.

Richie nearly fell up the steps as the words took him by surprise; he glanced once back at the man, the confusion in his eyes, his only response was a rough shove up the stone flight.  Kildaire was waiting for them in the hallway and he was staring up the internal stairs to two figures, Methos and his ancient friend at the top.  Ryan felt the strange shift in his soul that Tomas inspired and all the uncertainty and wayward emotion that his contact with the unusual Immortal had inspired came flooding back.  He stilled in Dimitri’s hold and his eyes showed the vivid recollection of his dream - in the presence of the old man once more, what was logical didn’t make sense, a nightmare was not just that and his future worried him.  Garret took his reaction to be submission, and laughed.

“Bring him forward,” the Eternal waved at his employee to display his prize.

Dimitri obeyed, and they strode a few paces ahead of the hot-blooded Italian to the foot of the stairs.

“Your Savage has lost his teeth, Tomas,” Kildaire gloated, but neither prisoner or mystic were listening.

The youth met the ancient’s gaze and his world froze in the moment inside his head.  He swung his sword again at again at the defenceless neck and he denied it.

“No Tomas!” he yelled at the diminutive figure who merely gazed at him.

Kildaire laughed at him, misreading the message.

“First you, Methos, my old friend and then the old man to whom you play lap dog,” he challenged, “then maybe the Boy as well, and if you don’t face me now, Fox, the Boy goes first.”

“Oh I don’t think so,” a voice cut through the man’s triumph and there was the slightest touch of a Scot’s accent in the deep tones.

Richie glanced round as he felt another Immortal touch; Duncan walked in through the front door, an easy, misleading smile on his lips and his katana nestled carefully against his arm.

“Your man outside will have a nasty headache when he wakes up,” the Highlander continued, “I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod and for what you have done to my friend, you face me first.”

“Dimitri, his head!” the Latino ordered.

The large man shook his head and pushed at his prisoner’s back as he removed the sword form his neck.  They stumbled rapidly up the stairs out of range of an angry lunge.

~

Duncan stood passively at the door, watching the clumsy miss and waiting for a more skilled attack that would inevitably come at him.  Methos had told him this creature’s history, he was an expert swordsman, trained well by Tomas’ people, and he was no little threat.  His advantage was focus, Kildaire was hot-bloodied and his temper had made him weak before.  He took a deep, calming breath and raised his sword smoothly as the body came slowly round to face him.  There was rage in the Latino’s eyes, and he grimaced nastily at his opponent as the challenge was accepted.

“You die now, Duncan MacLeod,” the man swore.

“You have to beat me first,” the Scot responded, feigning a vague amusement.

His ploy worked, as the elder Immortal flared at the apparent disrespect and swung poorly.  The Highlander brought his blade round easily and the first clash of steel rang through the room.

~

Richie went where he was pushed by his holder, lost in his own mind.  He was propelled rapidly up the stairs and after the other two Immortals into the safety of Tomas’ sanctum by a concerned Dimitri.  He was passive as he was brought to a stop and his bonds were cut by his own razor-sharp weapon.

“I am sorry for earlier,” Dimitri spoke to him, taking the coolness in him for distrust, “but it had to be convincing.”

“Dimitri was only working in our best interests,” Tomas spoke softly to his statuesque visitor.

The Savage looked up and across at the old man, his movements slow and his gaze icy.  His body was tense, his hands in fists, his teeth gritted and there was danger in his eyes.  Yet, the passion was not aimed at the wizened mystic, but the task the path wanted from him.

“No,” he breathed, his voice quiet but deadly.

Tomas raised a hand to him, his wrinkled features kind and concerned, Richie backed off.

“No!” he screamed this time, wild at the idea in his head, “I won’t do it!”

The bent old figure followed after him, his arms out to the distress that was so apparent, but his young player walked rapidly away more into the room.  Tomas knew exactly what he was talking about, and there was sympathy in his eyes.  He stopped a few feet away from the wild-eyed youth.

“Richie, I am asking you to,” the mystic spoke again, and the request was in his eyes.

Ryan turned rapidly away from the hypnotic gaze and answered with pain in his voice, “I can’t take your head.”

The young man glanced wildly at Dimitri as the man made an exclamation of shock, but Methos was nearby and laid a hand on the mortal’s shoulder.  There was grief in the ancient Immortal’s face as he spoke wordlessly to his comrade.

“You knew as well?” Richie demanded of the dark man.

“Tomas told me yesterday,” Adam responded his voice low and subdued.

“This isn’t cut and dried!” the youth objected hotly, feeling the prickle of tears at the back of his eyes as he felt the situation running away from him, “You don’t have to die, Tomas.”

“I want to, Richie,” the simple words brought the young man to stillness and silent dread; he stared questioningly at the source.  “I was born blind, Richie, into a world where such deformities were dealt with a birth.  Yet, my tribe recognised mystics and the Shaman pronounced me a seer.  I was raised by him and he taught me to read my dreams.  I knew from a very young age of our kind, and I knew I was not like the rest of us and that my path would not be the same.  I was destined to die an old man and remain so for many thousands of years. You have no idea what that is like, to be feeble in body but not in spirit and depend on others for protection, but I was to lead others along my path to this moment.”

“To do what? - dying doesn’t help anyone,” Richie spat, horrified by the sincerity of his willing victim.

“Yes it does,” Tomas argued so eloquently it was frightening, “I am decrepit, Richie, I cannot fight, I cannot be the last, but I can help a youngling survive beyond his first few years in the Game.  I have come to the end of my path, but yours is only just beginning.  There is hope for Immortals in The Fox, The Warrior and The Savage, my new heir.  There is something greater than the Game, beyond the Gathering that I cannot see, but you three will lead the way.  One from a distant time, wise in his years and caring, the second like many of our kind, counting his experience in centuries, and the third, a young one, rare as our members decline.  I have been given the chance to be part of this Richard.  I can live again through you.  I can help you heal and I can use my strength to fortify.”

The Savage stared at the small form, at a loss for what to do or say.

~

The lighter blade slid down the majestic steel of the katana and they were almost nose to nose.  Duncan stared into the fury that his opponent had become and smiled; as with all warrior’s the thrill of battle was attractive and strangely compulsive, the Highlander was enjoying this match of skill.  Kildaire was a worthy opponent, skilled with his chosen weapon and he had made a dangerous slice or two, but he was impulsive and could not control the streak of intensity in his being.  Both men were bloodied, but the wounds had healed quickly, being only vague surface cuts, and they did not interfere with the course of the clash.  A cry of excitement on his lips, the Clansman saw a break in the concentration of his competitor and used it.  He flexed and pushed his combatant away; the dark Italian stumbled backward, flailing his arms to try and regain his balance and MacLeod advanced.  He *was* angry, he felt the rage that Kildaire’s use of his pupil had inspired, he felt the slight twinge of fear that accompanied the thought of losing, but the emotion was centred, used to strengthen his fire, not spill out and distract as it did in his rival.  The difference between the two warriors was so evident as one moved on the other.

~

Tomas stood before his executioner, his blind eyes wide and seeing more than any natural vision; Ryan could feel his presence like an electricity already around him reaching out, prickling his skin, working away at his horror.

“Don't do this,” the young man begged, recognising the compulsion that was building around him and shying away from the deep gaze.

“Look at me, Richard,” the man breathed, his tone smooth and suggestive.

“No,” he moaned, swaying a little and he pleaded, “Methos, stop him.”

Yet, the ancient Immortal did not move from his place beside Dimitri, both men stood away from the intensity, outside it, only playing a minor role as the mortal handed the rapier to his captivating master.  Richie fought the power that was being brought to bear, but he began to lose.

~

Methos watched as the young man slowly began to turn and face the master of mystery; the ancient had never seen his friend invoke so much energy, but he could sense it even outside it’s range.  Tomas had already laid his argument at the researcher’s feet and Adam had regretfully agreed to let him go through with what the wizened creature saw as the culmination of his long journey.  Ordinarily, the dark man would have fought against the idea as hard as he recognised his young comrade so doing, but he’d felt the unusual nature of the arrival of The Savage, and he’d known his old friend too long to doubt his sight.  He held back the pain in his own heart, there was enough evident in the struggling youth.

~

There was fear in the blond young man’s eyes as he finally came round to face the immense call in the pale features.  There was no more fight in him, argument and influence both adding to the knowledge in his being that he would take a head.  Those white irises could have swallowed him then, taken his will altogether and moved him like a puppet, but the youth relaxed as the old man blinked.  There would be no more compulsion, the mystic had made his point, and he merely held out the fine blade to his Savage.

The power was still around him, a solace to the revulsion he felt and then the young Immortal saw the path again.  It was not so much a vision as a feeling and it made little sense, only a mess of promise and hope.  It was calming and a steady hand reached out for the hilt.

“Thank you,” Tomas murmured, a smile on his tired face and he bowed.

Richie watched as the old man struggled to his knees and placed his hands together in front of his chest.  He held his head up and closed his blank eyes for the last time.  The youth had never been more certain of a chosen moment than as he raised the sword - a cry escaped his lips as he brought the blade round; it spoke of the regret in his being for the loss of such a gentle man, it spoke of the future and it spoke of his need to heal the pain left inside.

~

Both fighters heard the cry dagger through the building, and knowledge of what had happened swept through them like fire through ice.  Kildaire’s scream replaced the momentary cry that should have been followed by absolute silence, there was no calm before this storm, and he chose to vent his rage on Duncan.  The Highlander was ready for the strike which came at him, and he deflected the over-stretched blow with ease; his rival was out of control.  Another swing, a stumble and then the Clansman sliced at the body which was left open.  Garret’s beserker cry cut out in shock and he looked down at his chest; he stared across at the poised Immortal, his face uncomprehending of the imminent end to the battle, and then he collapsed onto his hands and knees.  The final blow was swift and decisive.

~

The Savage stared across at Methos and the sword fell out his hand; there was so much guilt in his young features, but all the ancient could do was wait.  Tomas had promised the boy would not hate himself for his actions and he prayed he had not be wrong.  There was a stillness in the room, the time familiar to all Immortals before the Quickening is freed.  This time, it was not the long second of expectation, it was the aeon of self-loathing.  Adam *wanted* the healing to begin.


	6. Chapter 6

Richie started as he felt the first touch of electricity running up his arm; if it had been possible, he would have rejected the bolt.  He whimpered under his breath, a child lost in the horror of his own actions and then he shook again as it came stronger and more definite.  Suddenly, his body erupted in light and excruciating pain; he screamed.  His flesh shook and his thoughts scattered as the inheritance made him pay for its power.  Yet Tomas in death was as strange as in life and the Quickening touched the young man in ways he had not expected.  He fell to his knees, the physical force as suddenly as it had arrived, becoming insignificant; he froze in the kneeling position, the energy around him causing a spasm so great his trembling was almost invisible.  He was held by a force far stronger than anything he had felt before, and the only thing the helpless Immortal could do was surrender to it.  It was only moments and then his head bowed and he crumpled over himself as his mind exploded.  Memory returned, hard and fast and with it the knowledge of his opponents in the lost months that he had so wanted.

There had been three Immortals who had stood against Richard Ryan and he saw them as the lightening separated him from the real world:

First had been Noah Guthry, a man apparently in his forties, but a traveller on the road since 1813.  His way was simple, he lived alone and fought any Immortal he chanced upon on his journey.  He had met his young opponent on a wooded road in an uncertain part of the country and had laid the challenge.  He had no regrets when he had fallen to the swifter blade.

The streaks of energy dragged the man’s image away, but he would not be forgotten again, a creature of honour and simple lore, Ryan screamed for him, not with guilt, but respect for an equal.  The lightening danced again, penetrating his soul as well as his body and he was shown his second victory.

A half wild, dusty figure had walked into the diner of the small town, his movements weary, his need for food and a bed.  He had found neither.  The local boys had decided that the silent youth at the breakfast bar was fair game and they had missed the danger in his eyes when they had begun to dig.  His lack of response to their impertinent inquiries had only fuelled their fire and their confidence at being three against one kept them on his back.  It hadn’t taken much to spark the feral nature that was controlling the crazed Immortal, and one of the young men had fallen to an efficient swipe before the other two had seen him move.  There would have been more blood on the Bakerlite counter if it hadn’t been for the approach of another Eternal.  Kirrel had walked in the door, a tall, broad man in farmer’s overalls and even the mortals had stopped their planned attack.  These people were afraid of the steel-eyed Immortal, and the huge man brought silence to the diner.  Ryan could feel the fear in the air, almost taste it and he saw the dread in people’s eyes.  He had no idea what this being was to these people, but his gut told him it was not benevolent.  There was a hardness about the solitary local, an edge that had not been put there by his Immortal existence, but by his will, and he lorded it over the subdued residents.  The young men backed away from their victim, quickly aware that a new interest was on him; the youth felt almost like a prize being relinquished by subordinate dogs to their leader.  He didn’t like this cruel-eyed man, his instinct screamed at him that he was evil; there was no fear in the bright blue irises which met the grey steel gaze.  They had exchanged names and the challenged had been understood, there was no worry about what the cowering residents would think, they would not miss either an itinerant youth or the bully it was obvious he faced.  An hour later in a secluded field, Ryan had taken his Quickening.

Richie gritted his teeth against the scream that was in his throat, even in recollection, the nasty edge to Kirrel made him defiant and angry.  Only one person had spoken to him on his return to the town to fetch his bike, an old woman had told him about the man he’d killed. He’d been bleeding the residents for twenty years, a ‘protector’ and she’d suspected there was more to him than met the eye.  She’d thanked him for whatever he’d done, she didn’t want to know what, only be satisfied that Kirrel was gone.  It was the sun-coloured, relieved face that the youth wanted to keep in his head rather than the bitter grimace of his opponent.  Yet, neither remained very long as they were buffeted aside by the storm in his psyche.

The young man cried out, tears in his eyes as the last remembrance hit him all at once and he again knew betrayal.

Finally there had been Tanith, a feminine voice and a supple body next to his in his cold world.  His loneliness had been acute by the time the wild Immortal had found himself in the rolling hills of Wales.  Late September had been warm and he’d taken the chance of a beautiful afternoon to rest by the side of a large reservoir in the middle of nowhere.  He’d even taken a swim.  The youth had been alone, safe, only his bike and the wildlife for company, a chance to regain a little strength to continue his flight from his torment; he rarely slept at night now, it was easier to travel then and less people got in his way.  Then *she’d* come striding over the hill.  Her eyes had flared at his half-naked appearance after the dip, but more so at the raw edge to his psyche, the growl in his throat as he’d rolled smoothly to standing from where he had been dozing.  She hadn’t been beautiful in the classical sense, but the woman had oozed sexuality and an obvious wont to use it.  She had little time for words, and found him the same, a greeting, a curl of the lips on her part, a deep breath on his as he’d let her approach and she’d been *very* forward.

They’d stayed together in her cottage for two days, forty eight intense, exotic, powerful hours when the world outside had not mattered.  Yet, Tanith badly misjudged her young lover; their last night as he ‘dozed’ beside her she took a knife form under the bed and tried to bring it down in his heart.  If she had thought a quick smile and a helpless gasp at his touch had created trust in the feral being, she was very wrong, and he had never *slept* beside her.  There were no second chances in his reality - swords were drawn and he had felt her Quickening.

Three Immortals, three answers - there was the beginning of peace in the exhausted Eternal’s eyes as they clouded white.  As the last few crackles of energy moved around him, he stared straight ahead, arms out-stretched, body reluctant to relax after such convulsions.  He saw nothing and felt nothing, everything was numb for those few seconds as the tumult ceased.  Then he blinked, and Tomas’ touch was gone from the surface, his eyes shone a damp blue, tired and with a new knowledge in them.  The old mystic was in him, more than just another Quickening, less than an out and out influence, but the young man felt him.  The return of memory was the foetal beginnings of the healing he needed, and it was a relief-filled sigh that escaped his lips as he collapsed.

~

Duncan fell forward and grabbed the banister for support as Garret’s Quickening died away.  His movements disoriented, he gazed up the stairs to the slightly open door above him; there was no blue light, no sound, it was over, and absolute silence rang in his ears.

~

Adam lowered his paper as he felt the approach of his friends to the cafe table.  He squinted up against the wintry sunshine and smiled at the figures walking side by side. 

“Hello, Boys,” he greeted warmly, waving them to the seats he had waiting.  “How’s the bailing out going?”

The Seine had flooded as usual and this time the barge had taken on water.

“He’s done nothing but grumble for the last two days,” the blond youth answered, patting his taller comrade on the back and grinning broadly as they sat down, “I didn’t know he could be such an old grouch.”

The wonky, endearing smile was a sight for sore eyes.  It had been four weeks since the entrance of The Savage into Paris and the ancient was glad to see more healing in him everyday.  Richie had recovered well, an understanding of Tomas’ motives having come with the Quickening.  There was still the occasional wildness in his eyes, the tell of something extra that had not been there before, the feral edge that would not disperse.  Yet it was a side of him that was necessary, it had opened his mind to his dreams, and as much as the practical youth denied it in the cold light of day, he had taken over from the old mystic, in a less dramatic way, but the spark was there.  The researcher looked forward to seeing the flame in a few hundred years. 

“Well, I only just got it sorted out after Cassim’s arson attack,” the Scot moaned, waving an easy hand at the tease in the blue eyes.

Methos laughed at the relaxed banter between his companions, that had been a little time in reasserting itself.  Duncan had adjusted to his new role in his pupil’s life, he could no longer be the father, but he could be the friend, and Methos saw bonds between the two men that were even closer, though different, than before.  Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, warrior, proud, honourable, Richie’s loss had hurt him badly and there was an old strength back in his manner with the reforming of old ties.  There were few times in an Immortal life where links became so strong that they challenged the clear rules of the Game, but as he watched them, the ancient knew that here was one such relationship.  Only one seemed a ludicrous concept.

“You can always stay on my floor until the barge is dry again,” Adam offered smoothly and enjoyed the feeling of camaraderie that it gave him.

The old man missed Tomas, it had been hard closing the house and disbanding his entourage, but he had to admit that he’d never felt more belonging than he did with his present companions.  His ancient friend had shown him a pathway, and he had walked it for a long time, but now he was *part* of a new road and it felt right.

“Me casa es su casa,” he finished sincerely.


End file.
